


From the Ground Up

by Rianne



Series: Kent Parson deserves nice things [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: (Obviously), Angst, Anxiety, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hockey, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Slurs, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Until it's resolved that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-03-10 03:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 167,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rianne/pseuds/Rianne
Summary: Kent has a pretty good life. It’s been a couple years since the Aces last won a cup, but he’s still at the height of his career. He has an apartment with a stunning view over Vegas, a best friend who’s always dragging him to basketball games, a cat to cuddle with, and more money than he could ever spend.Everything is fine.So it won’t be a problem at all if he strikes up a friendship with that guy he meets at the All-Star party.----Tomas enjoyed the years he spent in Minnesota, but he’s ready for a new life in a different city. It means he’ll be even further from his friends and family in Quebec, and he’s not sure he’s going to adapt well to the desert. But he’ll have his new job to distract him, and he’s never minded the challenge of developing a new circle of friends and acquaintances.He doesn’t expect Kent Parson to be part of that.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my wonderful beta C (“beta” does not do justice to her enormous contributions to this work, tbh) and my proofreader and plotting help J. Also thanks to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) who helped me with the French throughout this fic!
> 
> This story is finished except for editing and beta work on the later chapters. (That's a lie, I still need to write a few scenes here and there, but it's mostly finished.) It’ll be ~22 chapters and I aim to upload every week.
> 
> Title is from Knocking At The Door by Arkells. (Kent would hate their music, even though it’s such a Kent band.)
> 
> This fic mentions real hockey players, but none of them have opinions or lines, or do anything other than score the occasional goal, so I haven’t tagged for RPF. If any of the players on non-Aces teams express opinions or do controversial things, you can assume they're players I invented, and obviously any players on Ngozi Extension teams are OCs as well. (…Any resemblance of this fic’s minor-character hockey journalists to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. And anyway, they don’t do anything but tweet.)
> 
> Please note that this fic contains some pretty serious anxiety and panic in later chapters, as well as some not super healthy alcohol use. Tread carefully and take care of yourself!
> 
> All that's left now is for me to thank Ngozi for inventing this world to play around in. 
> 
> With those notes out of the way, let me take you from tonight's real-life All-Star Skills Competition in Tampa Bay to a different, alternate-universe 2018 NHL All-Star Weekend taking place in Las Vegas…

**NHL** @NHL · 2h

It’s All-Star Weekend in Vegas! Our recap of the skills competition atnhl.com/5hgOe9h

 

 **Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 2h

My boy @kvparson90, Breakaway Champioooooon! #SkillzCompetition

 

 **Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 2h

Aren’t we all glad we’re not going to the Olympics so we can enjoy the magic of the all-star weekend?

 

 **NHL** @NHL · 2h

Parson and McDavid face off against Crosby and Zimmermann tomorrow! Watch the NHL All-Star Game at 3:30 ET.

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1h

The skills games were a blast, now on to the main event!! Super stoked we’re hosting the All-Star Weekend this year!

  
         -------------  


Kent is not 100% sure how many drinks he’s had. That’s probably not a good thing. Then again, this is the All-Star party, so it’s par for the course, really. He’s pretty sure that at last year’s All-Star, he was still technically drunk when he went on the ice for the actual game.

If you ask Kent (which nobody has, but he’s still happy to tell you), the entire All-Star Weekend is a waste of time. The skills competition is useless, the game is kind of a joke, and everyone knows players are selected based on jersey sales rather than talent.

“Is this party much different from last year?” asks the woman next to him. They’ve been talking for a few minutes. Kent thinks her name is Celina and he’s pretty sure he's seen her at a family skate before, so she’s probably the girlfriend of one of the Aces.

“Well, more of my teammates are here,” Kent says, sipping his bourbon.

Celina laughs. “Isn’t it great that the All-Star is here this year? Robbie might not have made it to your level yet, but at least we get to come to the party.” Definitely Keller’s girlfriend, then.

“Celina, hey!” There’s the blond, cheery rookie in question, throwing his arm around his girlfriend. “I’ve been looking for you all over.”

Kelly is followed by three more of Kent’s teammates. There’s Scotty, who’s just started his first big contract and took over from Scrappy as Kent’s right winger this season; Esko, the soft-spoken, dark-haired giant from Finland who’s lighting up their D; and Birds, the small, speedy Russian center. They arrange themselves around Kent and Celina at the bar in a semi-circle.

Scotty ignores the reunion taking place in front of him and continues whatever conversation they were having before. “No, Esko, come on, you know it’s true,” he says, his hands moving so much as he speaks that his drink almost sloshes out of his glass. He points a finger at Esko and almost pokes him in the chest.

“He’s the best player on that team,” Esko says with a shrug.

“Whatever,” Scotty says. “You know that’s not why they picked him.”

“Who?” Celina asks, leaning into Keller.

“Jack fucking Zimmermann,” Scotty says, almost stumbling over the name. He sounds more drunk than Kent, and less drunk than Kent now wants to be. Kent takes a step back, which puts him flush against the bar. Scotty goes on, “He’s past his prime, man. He has way fewer points than Parser this season. Right, Parse?”

“Uh, sure,” Kent says.

“Exactly,” Scotty says. “So you know they just put him on the All-Star roster because he’s, you know, gay.”

Kent throws back the rest of his glass and narrowly avoids having a coughing fit.

“Is good thing Zimmermann is not on Pacific team,” Birds says. “Then Parse would have play with him. Glad you avoid that, right, Parse? Could be contagious.”

“Uh,” Kent says as the others laugh. He thinks he might throw up. Probably shouldn’t have knocked that drink back so fast. “I’m going to get another drink.” He presses himself between Esko and the bar to escape his teammates. A minute later, he’s got another bourbon in his hand. He takes a too-large sip and glances back at the little group he just left, then decides he’d rather jump off the roof of the building than go back to that conversation. It’s not the first time Scotty has made this argument, and it makes Kent want to punch something.

He turns to make his way further into the room, and promptly runs into Jack Zimmermann. Jack is here with his boyfriend, who is currently plastered against his side with a wide smile on his face. The smile disappears as soon as Bittle catches sight of Kent.

“Kent,” Jack says.

“Uh,” Kent says. He’s the pinnacle of eloquence tonight, that’s for sure.

“Kent, this is Bitty,” Jack continues.

“We’ve met,” Bittle says icily.

“Uh,” Kent says. He’s not sure how he moved from one terrible conversation to one that he wants to have even less. “Yeah, that’s great. I’m actually supposed to be over there.” He gestures into the crowd and then—thank God—spots Swoops, who he’d lost sight of about an hour ago.

He recovers enough to say, “See you on the ice, Zimms,” and smirk at Jack, and then he twists his way through the crowd toward Swoops.

“Hey, Parson,” says someone who he’s just passing by, but he pretends not to hear. It’s probably a reporter, and Kent could really use a conversation where he doesn’t have to be on his toes at all times.

Finally he reaches Swoops, who’s over in a corner talking to some guy that Kent doesn’t think he’s seen before, a guy with dark skin and square glasses that glint metallic-blue in the dim light. Kent takes a deep breath and steps up to them. “Hey there,” he says, tossing a grin at the unfamiliar guy.

“Dude, where have you been?” Swoops says, grabbing Kent by the shoulder and pulling him flush against his side. Kent can feel himself relax. Swoops is effortlessly tactile, which is just the grounding thing Kent needs when he’s kind of drunk in a room full of hockey players and reporters. “I know you’re an All Star and I’m just a lowly second-pairing D-man who just happens to live in the city where the All-Star Game is held, but I didn’t think you’d abandon me.”

“I’ve outgrown you, Swoops,” Kent says grandly.

“Shut up,” Swoops laughs. “Anyway, this is Tomas Nadeau. You know, Catrina’s Tomas? Tomas, this is the one and only Kent Parson.”

Kent wasn’t aware that their PR manager was dating, and this guy doesn’t look any older than Kent whereas Catrina is in her late forties, but hey, who is he to judge? He shakes the hand that Nadeau holds out. “Hey, man, nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Nadeau says. “Good party.”

Something about the way he rolls his r’s is immediately familiar, and Kent finds himself saying, “You from Quebec?”

“Yes, actually. Trois-Rivières,” Nadeau says. “Not many people guess that.”

Kent frowns and takes another sip of his bourbon. “What do they guess?”

“Some country in Africa, most of the time,” Nadeau says, smiling wryly. “How are you feeling about the game tomorrow?”

“Like I’m going to be even more drunk on the ice than I was last year,” Kent says. He should probably be watching his words; there could be reporters hovering nearby. But the levels of alcohol consumption at the All-Star party are an open NHL secret, anyway, so it’s probably fine.

Swoops and Nadeau laugh. “Speaking of which, I’m going to get another drink,” Swoops says. “Tomas, you want anything?”

Nadeau holds up his half-full glass. “I’m good.”

Swoops wanders off into the crowd, and Kent suppresses a sigh. The party is famously the only good thing about All-Star Weekend, but Kent can’t say he’s enjoying himself all that much. First the thing with his teammates, then running into Jack, now he’s abandoned by Swoops. Though really, even before any of those things he was on a mission to get drunk. Honestly, he thinks that started when he first saw Jack enter with Bittle.

Jack Zimmermann, first out player in the NHL. He’s been a media sensation for a season and a half, since the day the Falcs won the cup and Jack celebrated by kissing his boyfriend on national TV. Kent saw it happen and then staunchly ignored all the clamoring and the twitter shitstorm and the press releases about bisexuality and committed relationships and everything.

It’s not that Kent isn’t happy for Jack, because he is. And it’s great that Jack can come here with his boyfriend. It’s just that whenever he sees them, Kent feels like he might break something or hurl himself through a plate glass wall. So he tries to avoid seeing them at all.

“Hello, earth to Kent Parson,” says an amused voice beside him. Tomas Nadeau is waving a hand in front of his eyes and grinning at him. “Don’t be so distracted on the ice tomorrow.”

Kent grins back, pushing all other thoughts to the back of his mind. “Whatever. It isn’t the Olympics.” They share a little grimace—the Olympics are in two weeks, and Kent isn’t going because no NHL players are going. Fuck Gary Bettman. “It’s just the All-Star Game. Where nobody cares who wins and the points don’t matter. If it weren’t for the thousands of fans I’d disappoint, I’d stay home and watch _Are You The One_.”

“That show is the _worst_ ,” Nadeau says. “I love it.”

Before Kent knows it, they’re debating which participants are perfect matches and Nadeau is explaining why Johnny and Katie probably aren’t a match but they deserve each other anyway because they’re both awful people. Then they’re talking about basketball. Swoops never actually comes back, probably got held up somewhere, but Kent finds that he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

“So how long have you been living here?” he asks after a while, when they’ve gone through their respective basketball brackets and made their predictions for March Madness.

“I just moved, actually,” Nadeau says. “I’m still getting to know the city.”

“Well, it’s kind of awful,” Kent says, because he has a love-hate relationship with Vegas. “Have you been to the fountain show?”

“I haven’t done any sightseeing yet.” Nadeau laughs a little. “It’s been a busy week. Also, I think that kind of stuff is boring on your own.”

Kent should say something about Nadeau going with Catrina and then leave it at that. It’s probably the alcohol that makes him say, “Well, I can show you around some time.”

Nadeau nods, but he doesn’t seem to think Kent says it out of anything more than politeness, so Kent says, “Here, gimme your phone.”

Looking bemused now, Nadeau takes his phone out of his pocket, swipes across the screen and hands it to Kent. Kent presses ‘contacts’ and puts in his number. “There. Text me. We’ve got a roadie next week but after that I’m around.”

Nadeau is genuinely smiling now. “I will,” he says.

  
         -------------

 

 **NHL** @NHL · 1d

The Metropolitan team wins the 2018 NHL All-Star Game!

 

 **NHL** @NHL · 1d

Parson and McDavid teamed up for a two-on-one and put the puck in the net

[VIDEO]

|

 **NHL** @NHL · 1d

Zimmermann scores the All-Star game-winning goal on the breakaway after a saucer pass from Lundqvist

[VIDEO]

|

 **NHL** @NHL · 1d

Watch all the All-Star highlights atnhl.com/89Igje0P

  
         -------------

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

The Aces are visiting Sunrise Children’s Hospital today!

  
         -------------

 

“All right, let’s go cheer up some fuckin’ kids!” Scotty says as he settles in the back seat of Swoops’ car. Kent grins at him from the passenger seat.

“Maybe don’t swear in front of them,” Swoops says with a chuckle. “Just a suggestion.”

Scotty rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go, or we’re gonna be late.”

“Downsides of riding with Swoops,” Kent says.

“Hey,” Swoops protests, but he puts the car in gear.

Kent smirks at him, then turns to Scotty. “Upsides: Swoops’ wife leaves her super delicious imported Dutch candy in the glove compartment. Downsides: He’s always fucking late.” He glances back over at Swoops. “That’s why I always pick you up and not the other way around, so I can just drag you outside if I have to.”

“Why’s Swoops driving, then?” Scotty says. 

“No space for you in my car,” Kent says.

“Oh, yeah. Well I’m glad I could tag along with you. I can’t believe Carly gave my seat to an American League guy who’s only called up because Viggo is out for two games.”

Kent laughs. “The kid just flew in from Chicago. It’s called being welcoming. You should try it if you want to get Skids’ A someday.”

“Yeah, yeah. Why didn’t _you_ pick him up then, Mr C?”

“A good captain delegates,” Kent says.

Swoops chuckles beside him. “You just delegated because you thought it meant you could avoid having a third person in our car.”

Kent throws Swoops a betrayed look as Scotty laughs behind him. Their banter has taken them most of the way to their destination already, and a few minutes later they’re pulling up in the parking lot of the Children’s Hospital.

They’re met by most of the rest of the team, a batch of Aces PR and management lackeys, and several hospital staff members. Kent’s been on a dozen of these visits, so he tunes out most of the instructions. It’s not hard to make a hospital visit a success anyway: Be nice to the kids, hand out Aces gear, sign autographs, cheer them up.

The visit is fun. Lots of the kids are very into hockey, and Kent has a recognizable name and face even for casual fans. He signs dozens of autographs and takes as many pictures. It’s nice to see all the smiling faces.

It’s also kind of exhausting. Eventually, he finds himself leaning against the wall next to Swoops in a quiet corner of some hallway. They’re meant to be visiting one more kid, but she’s being seen by a doctor, and they’ve been asked to wait outside.

“Damn,” Kent says. “Kids are cute and all, but the under-tens are a handful.”

Swoops chuckles. He slides down the wall so he’s sitting on the floor. Even though there’s a couple of chairs just feet away, Kent does the same. “Yeah,” Swoops says. “Now you know why you don’t guest-coach the mites, right?”

“Oh god, can you imagine corralling two dozen seven-year-olds around a rink? Eleven and up is bad enough,” Kent says. “Once they’re teenagers, they make some sort of sense to me, but before that? I don’t really get how parents do it.”

Swoops doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds, and when Kent glances over, he’s staring at the blank hospital wall, looking thoughtful. Before Kent can wonder if he’s said something odd, Swoops says, “Sanne and I want to have a kid.”

“Oh, like now?” Kent says.

“Yeah, I mean, usually there’s a nine-month waiting period, but now-ish,” Swoops says.

“Cool,” Kent says. It’s not really that surprising—Swoops has been married for a couple of years now, and Kent knows he’s always wanted to have kids. It’s still kind of a weird idea to think of Swoops as a father, though—maybe because he’s only two years older than Kent, and Kent definitely can’t see himself as a father.

“Yeah,” Swoops says. “It seems like a good time.” He glances around the hallway, but there aren’t any teammates or PR staff near. “I’m in talks for a contract extension. They don’t want to let me go into free agency, so they’re probably not trading me before the deadline either. Looks like I’m here a couple more years. We’ve wanted to for a while now, so we figured it’s a good moment.”

“That’s cool, man. You’re gonna make a good dad,” Kent says, because he does know that much. Swoops is great with kids, and he doesn’t seem half as exhausted as Kent from all the little ones running around in this hospital wing.

Swoops huffs out a sort-of laugh. “You think so?”

“’Course,” Kent says easily.

“Well, I guess she has to get pregnant first, before I should really start worrying about being a good dad,” Swoops says. He looks a little hesitant.

Kent lifts an eyebrow. “Is that gonna be a problem?” He smirks and adds, “Can’t get it up?”

“Fuck you,” Swoops says, hiding his rueful smile by looking away. One time, in a weird alcohol-induced truth-or-dare session, Kent had dragged out the story of Swoops’ first time with Sanne. It had involved an ice-cold mountain chalet in Sweden, a lot of alcohol, and some performance problems. He hasn’t let Swoops live it down since.

“No, but seriously,” Kent says.

“I don’t know,” Swoops says. “My brother and his wife can’t have kids. He wouldn’t really tell me what was going on medically, but… yeah, I don’t know, I just worry about it, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Makes sense. But that’s your brother’s problem, not yours. I mean, I feel like that can’t be genetic, right? If you got infertility problems from your parents, how would they have had you? So you’ll probably be fine.”

Swoops chuckles. “I think it’s more complicated than that, but sure.” They fall silent for a little while, until Swoops says, “Do you want kids?”

Kent shrugs. “Nah. Not sure I’m the Dad type, anyway.”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Swoops looking at him. “Why not?”

He’s saved from having to answer that by the appearance of a nurse in the hallway. “The doctor’s done, and Tammy won’t stop asking for the hockey players,” she says, gesturing into the room.

“That’s us,” Kent says, getting back to his feet. “Come on, Swoops, let’s see those dad skills in action.”

  
         -------------

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3d

We’re starting out on our next Western Canada roadie today! The guys are boarding the plane…

[PHOTO]

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

.@kvparson90 scored his 50th point this season! #AcesvsFlames

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

Final score: Aces 3, Flames 0. Sims gets his third shutout this season! #AcesvsFlames

  
         -------------

 

Kent is rummaging through his suitcase in his Edmonton hotel room when his phone rings. The screen reads _Michelle_ , which is a little odd. His agent calls him every other Friday to go over his schedule and update him on his finances and contracts, but he’s pretty sure it’s Tuesday now.

“Hey,” he says, perching on the edge of the bed.

“Throw out all your sunglasses, you work for Dolce & Gabbana now,” Michelle says cheerfully.

He chuckles. “Seriously? You couldn’t have worked it out with Gucci instead?” He’s mostly kidding, even though his favorite pair are actually Guccis and it’s going to be slightly more painful to throw them out than he’s willing to admit. “I didn’t know we were so close to finalizing a deal.”

“Honestly, I didn’t think they’d come through so fast, or I would’ve mentioned it last week,” she says. “And I know you had your heart set on Gucci,” she teases, “But D&G are offering a good deal. It’s pretty standard—they want two TV ads, one filmed later this month and the other right before the playoffs if you make it, or right before the start of next season if you don’t. They wanted three print ads, but I talked them down to two, and they have a charity banquet in late March that they want you at, plus a couple things over the summer.”

He likes how Michelle always gets straight to the point. It’s business first, and then afterwards she’ll ask him how he’s doing. Not that he ever answers anything other than “fine”, but it’s nice to know she cares. “Okay,” he says. “Late March, that’s right before the playoffs. How does it work with my schedule?”

“Not bad, actually,” she says. “You’re lucky; the charity thing is in Vegas and it’s on the second of two consecutive non-game days.”

“I didn’t know I even had two consecutive off days in March,” Kent says, flopping back onto the bed. “It’s _March_.”

She chuckles. “You’ve had worse March schedules than this season’s, actually. But to get back to the deal, they’re offering $815,000, plus of course a boatload of free sunglasses. It’s for a year initially, though I think they might be open to extending it, depending on how well you do as the face of the brand.”

“Okay,” he says. He’s really glad he can leave these sorts of negotiations to Michelle. “So you think it’s a good deal?”

“I think you should take it,” she confirms. “I’ll have the contract tomorrow. Let’s see, you’ve got the Canucks game tomorrow night and you’re flying back Thursday morning… I can fly in Thursday afternoon and we can go over it. You can let me know what you think. Obviously if there’s anything you disagree with I can take it back to the negotiating table. I took into account everything you said when they first approached us, though, so it should be good to sign if you want it.”

“Sounds good.”

“Great,” Michelle says. “I’ll let you know when I’ve booked my flight. How’s your roadie going?”

“Yeah, good,” he says. “Shutout on Sunday, so that helps, obviously.”

“And you got your fiftieth point,” she reminds him.

“Yeah.” Kent grins at the ceiling. The Aces season isn’t going as well as they’d all like, but their last win means they’re only a point away from a playoffs spot. When the team is on a good streak, he can enjoy his personal victories as well—like the fact that he’s on pace for his third consecutive 70-point season.

“How are things between Beck and Kelly?” she asks, like a mom who wants to make sure her son’s friends are getting along.

“Yeah, not bad. It was just some sort of weird rivalry, I think. Not that Kelly stood a chance at winning whatever hockey-related pissing contest they had going on. But I talked to both of them this weekend and they seem to tolerate each other now, so, you know. Maybe I’ll figure out this captain thing at some point,” he says.

“I think you’re doing just fine.”

He huffs out a breath. “Thanks. Anyway, I should go, game tonight.”

“Good luck,” Michelle says. “And see you Thursday.”

  
         -------------  
 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

The guys are back from the roadie! Home sweet home  
[PHOTO]

 

 **Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 1h

The Aces went 2-0-1 on this roadie and are back in the fourth spot in the Pacific. Two points below the Flames, but the Flames have two games in hand.

  
         -------------  
 

Kent hasn’t quite forgotten about his conversation with Tomas Nadeau, but it’s close. He was pretty drunk, after all. He doesn’t really expect Nadeau to take him up on his sightseeing offer, especially when he still hasn’t heard from him by the time he’s back from his roadie and has signed his Dolce & Gabbana contract. He goes out to celebrate his new endorsement deal with some of his teammates, gets them all a couple of rounds, privately chirps Swoops about how much he must be getting laid now that he’s trying to become a dad.

On Friday morning, he wakes to the sound of Kit throwing up. It’s happened before and she’s probably fine, but he still finds himself worrying about her as he cleans up, checking and re-checking to make sure she’s still active and looking bright-eyed. He’s so preoccupied that he doesn’t remember he has morning skate until well after he should’ve left, which means he’s rushing into the locker room just as the other guys finish changing. He hasn’t even been to see the trainer yet, but he’ll give his excuses later.

“Decided to join us, eh?” Tanner chirps, clapping him on the shoulder as he walks by.

“You have good night?” Birds shouts. He’s still at his stall, just lacing up his second skate. He stands up and gestures at Kent as he continues, “Yesterday, me, Swoops, and Scotty out with Parse. He leave club with very pretty girl.”

There’s an “ooooh” from around the locker room. Someone wolf whistles. Damnit, Kent is not in the mood for this. He turns to grab his pads, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes.

“Was she any good?” Scotty asks from beside him.

He throws his shirt over his stall and smirks at Scotty. “She was nice,” he says. She was also drunk, which was why he’d put her in a cab and sent her home. The thing is, it’s not like he would’ve taken her back to his place if she’d been sober, either.

“Fuck, Parser, I wish I had as much game as you did,” Tower says.

“It’s the Kent Parson Charm,” Kent says. “You fuckers get on the ice. Give me two minutes.”

The rest of the guys file out. Kent takes two seconds to just sit on the bench. Then he takes a deep breath and finishes changing.

He’s still getting chirped when he makes it to the ice, and intermittently as they run drills and work on offensive plays. It’s not a surprise; this happens whenever the guys think he’s hooked up, which is pretty frequently. He puts up with it usually, but he thinks it would probably be less uncomfortable if he actually did take home a different girl every week.

He could do that, because he is a professional athlete with a hefty paycheck, a great body, and a very attractive smile. But the last time he took a girl home was years ago. It's... not something he's keen to repeat. Not because… not because it was _bad_. She was nice, and it was... fine. It was fine. He just hasn’t done it since. And that's okay. Some people wait for romance, right? Kent just hasn’t found his romance. Not that the guys need to know that. If they want to assume Kent's got game, who's he to stop them?

After practice, a shower, and a couple of press questions, he’s about to head home when he remembers that Catrina wanted to talk to him and a couple of the others about some upcoming PR stuff. After a sick cat and a morning of chirps about his sex life, the last thing Kent needs is to be reminded of the existence of reporters, but he tags along with Carly and Swoops to the PR and management office building next door anyway.

Kent is only half listening while Catrina and Miguel outline the AcesTV pieces they’ll be featured in. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he distracts himself by trying to guess who might’ve texted him. Swoops is in the room, but it could be one of his other teammates. Maybe his sister—she’s probably finished her morning classes by now. Or it could be his mom, though he called her a week or two ago and she’s not really a texter.

Catrina has moved on to talking about some new reporter that she’s hired to the press team. Kent’s not sure why that’s relevant, so maybe it means this meeting is winding down and he can head home.

“I don’t see the point of all this fucking PC culture,” Carly is saying, and okay, it sounds like Kent has missed part of the conversation because he’s not sure where that came from. Carly is one of the veterans, a couple of years older than Kent. He’s got an A, and he’s great at rallying the younger guys up for games. The media always eats up his talks about giving it 100% and praises him as an example for the sport, which is probably because they don’t get to hear how much he swears behind closed doors.

“All I’m saying is, improving our reputation as an organization is important, and you guys as players have a role in that,” Catrina says patiently. “The people at You Can Play have been—”

“Oh please,” Carly interrupts. “I’m not saying that what they do isn’t great and all that, but I’m sick and tired of our guys getting told off like little kids. Everyone in the media is out for blood every time someone moves a toe out of line. Look, swearing is a part of hockey, and I get that there’s tension there since there are cameras around, but these days you say one word wrong and everyone’s making a mountain out of a molehill. Come on, we’re not racist or homophobic, it’s just that every other word is a slur these days.”

Kent sinks a little deeper into his chair. He should probably say something, but his mouth is dry, and he doesn’t know what he’d say, anyway. Besides, it looks like Swoops has it covered—he’s sitting up in his chair and launching into something about how there’s a difference between swearing and slurs, they need to create a positive environment, and Catrina’s right that they should take this seriously.

His phone buzzes again, and Kent pulls it out of his pocket. It takes him two tries to enter his passcode because his hands are shaking.

 **Unknown number [1:14 pm]:** Hey it’s Tomas, from the all-star party the other night

 **Unknown number [1:14 pm]:** Could I still take you up on that offer for a tour of the city?

 **Unknown number [1:15 pm]:** Finally unpacked all my boxes, and I wouldn’t mind a sightseeing buddy who knows the city

 **Unknown number [1:15 pm]:** Only if you’ve got time, of course

Kent is glad for the distraction as he ponders his response. He considers turning Tomas down, because he has a busy job and he doesn’t know if he should be going around giving tours to his co-workers’ significant others. On the other hand, talking to Tomas had been the most fun part of the All-Star party. And he does know Vegas pretty well.

 **Kent [1:16 pm]** sure i have a game tnite but im free tmrw after practice

He’s not sure he ever asked what Tomas did for a living, but tomorrow is a Saturday, so chances are he’ll have the day off. Within seconds, he gets a response.

 **Unknown number [1:16 pm]:** Awesome, thanks, I’m free tomorrow

 **Unknown number [1:17 pm]:** Let me know when  & where to meet you

 **Unknown number [1:17 pm]:** Good luck at the game, go aces!

Kent saves the number in his contacts and puts his phone away. Catrina is frowning at him, but that’s kind of her default. She’s always trying to convince him to have more press contact and he’s always avoiding her like the plague. Everyone in the press thinks he’s great, anyway, so PR doesn’t really have anything to complain about just because he doesn’t go the extra mile to talk to reporters when it’s not game-day press.

Swoops and Carly have apparently agreed to disagree and fallen silent, so Catrina turns back to Carly. “Okay, well, regardless of all that, he’s interviewing you next week for an article, and we’ll be filming it, too. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to be civil.”

Well, Kent reflects, judging by the look on Carly’s face, this new hire has his work cut out for him.

  
         -------------  


“ _Non, Émilie, j’regrette pas d’avoir déménagé à Vegas._ ” Tomas presses his phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can use both hands to sort through a pile of books. “ _But I do regret not taking a picture of my bookcase before I packed it up. I know I had a good system, but right now it just looks like a mess._ ”

“ _Well, if that’s your worst problem, you’re not doing so bad_ ,” his best friend says over the phone. It’s nice to hear Émilie's voice, nice to be able to speak his first language. “ _Honestly, I’m impressed you’ve already unpacked everything._ ”

“ _I know, right? Look at me, so organized._ ”

_“I’ll say. How’s the weather?”_

“ _Unreasonably warm for February_.” Tomas glances over at the window. He can see the air shimmering over the rooftops across the street. Above that, all he can see is blue sky. “ _I hear they have an ice rink or two somewhere here, but I don’t believe it.”_

“ _Get used to it_ ,” she says mercilessly. “ _That’s what you get from moving so far away from me. St Paul was bad enough._ ”

“ _At least St Paul had seasons_ ,” Tomas says. He glances at the clock, which is on the floor against the wall, waiting for him to hang it up. “ _I have to go in a minute. Kent Parson is going to show me around Vegas_.”

“ _What now_?” Émilie says. “ _Did you just say that Kent Parson, face of the Las Vegas Aces franchise, is going to show you around town?_ ”

“ _The very same. Met him at that All-Star party,”_ Tomas says. “ _He offered, I thought it could be fun_.”

“ _Doesn’t that man have hockey to play?_ ”

“ _Not today, apparently. I’ll tell you more about it later, yeah?_ ”

“ _You’d better_ ,” Émilie says. “ _Don’t make me come to Vegas to drag the details out of you_.”

Tomas laughs. “ _I won’t. But you will have to come visit at some point. We’ll speak soon, okay?_ ”

Half an hour later, Tomas pulls into a parking garage not far from the Strip. True to Kent’s promise over text, it’s miraculously half-empty despite it being a Saturday afternoon. Tomas’ decision to tag along with a local is already paying off.

His phone buzzes with an incoming text, and he pulls to a stop so he can read it.

 **Kent [2:03 pm]:** parked on 3rd flr

Tomas rolls his eyes. How hard is it to write two extra o's? iPhones do most of the work anyway these days; Kent must have trained his phone into laziness. He follows the garage’s arrows up to the third floor, muttering his judgements to himself in French.

He finds an empty spot just across from where Kent is leaning against a red convertible and staring off into the middle distance. You could slap a pretentious slogan on top of the image and it’d make a good Corvette ad.

Kent looks up when Tomas slams the door of his jeep behind him (slams it hard, because it tends to stick if he’s too gentle). He raises an eyebrow at Tomas’ car. “Oh, your poor car,” he gasps dramatically. “It looks like it’s destined for the big pile of scrap metal in the sky.”

“Watch it, Parson,” Tomas says. He puts his keys in his pocket and crosses the tarmac to Kent’s side. “That car and I have been through a lot.” Admittedly, his jeep is not in the best shape, but it’s been with him since he was in college, and he’s the only one allowed to say a bad word about it. “And you know, not all of us are on an 80-million-dollar contract.”

Kent is still shaking his head at Tomas’ rusty beat-up 4x4, but he nods as he pushes off of his own expensive ride. “Yeah, all right, fair. What’s her name?” he asks as he makes for the garage exit.

“Oh, it doesn’t have one,” Tomas says, falling into step at Kent’s side.

“What?” Kent says, looking appalled now. “I thought you two had been through a lot. How can she not have a name?”

Tomas shoots him an amused look. “Well, what’s your red monstrosity called, then?”

“Carmen Electra,” Kent says. At Tomas’ questioning expression, he adds, “She’s a hybrid.”

Tomas snorts out a laugh. “That’s awful, man.”

Kent grins at him, unapologetic at his bad taste. “At least I named her. Your pile of rust deserves better from you.”

They bicker as they ride the elevator down, and then they’re outside in the glaring Las Vegas sun. It’s February and it’s not quite hot, but the sun is brighter than it has any right to be at this time of year.

“I can’t believe I moved to a desert,” Tomas grumbles, squinting into the harsh light. He really needs to invest in some sunglasses.

“It’s worse in the summer. But you get used to it,” Kent says, flashing his 1000-watt grin. “Try spending half your time out here and the other half on ice.”

“Yeah, that’ll be fun.” Tomas sighs. “God, I’m going to miss the rain.”

“Rain is overrated,” Kent says. “Who needs plants, right? Come on, we’re going to the Linq first, get you a proper view of Vegas.”

They plunge into the bustle of tourists. Kent keeps up a running commentary as they go, listing off the famous hotels they’re passing and making sarcastic little quips about how awful and wonderful everything is. Tomas has a feeling that Kent’s relationship to Vegas is like Tomas’ relationship to his car: He knows it’s terrible, but he loves it anyway.

Kent insists on getting their tickets for the Linq High Roller Ferris wheel, and Tomas gives up trying to dissuade him pretty quickly. After all, it’s not like Kent Parson is going to feel the absence of another twenty-five bucks.

Kent gets recognized by the attendant who’s loading the pods, and after a selfie and a signature, this lands them a pod to themselves. Tomas is pretty sure giving out private pods is not in the attendant’s job description, but he’s not going to complain either.

“Does it get annoying?” he asks, sitting down on one of the benches as the High Roller jolts slightly and begins to move.

“What, meeting fans? Nah, I don’t mind,” Kent says easily, settling down next to him. “Most of them are cool. And it takes like two minutes to make their day, you know? It’s nice. Besides, there are perks.” He gestures at the empty pod they’re in. “Give me fans over the press any day.”

Tomas frowns. “That right? What’s wrong with the press?”

Kent glances over at him. “Oh, shit, sorry, you’re dating one of them, right? It’s not personal or anything.”

“I’m what?” Tomas says, because that’s definitely news to him.

“You’re dating Catrina, right?” Kent says. Tomas stares at him, wondering where the hell that rumor came from. Kent goes on, “I mean, I guess PR isn’t the same, she’s part of the Aces org and not the independent sports press, but…” He trails off, probably because of the look on Tomas’ face.

Tomas is still distracted by all the layers of absurdity here, so it takes him a moment to say, “I’m not—I’m _dating Catrina?_ Where the hell did you get that idea?”

Kent is frowning now. “You’re not dating her? But Swoops introduced you as _Catrina’s Tomas_ , I thought he meant—”

“That I was dating her, oh my god, that’s hilarious.” And it sounds like it’s just Kent who arrived at this conclusion—that’s better than if the entire organization was somehow convinced he was involved with his boss. “He said that because she _hired_ me, I work for the Aces,” Tomas says. He chuckles at the weird turn in the conversation. “She’s over forty, man.”

“Dude, I know that, I wasn’t gonna judge,” Kent says, holding up his hands.

“Besides, there are many other reasons I’m not dating her,” Tomas says. “For starters, I’m gay. And she’s, you know, a woman, so I don’t really go for that. But also, like I said, she hired me two weeks ago to do game coverage and write for the Aces’ section of nhl.com.”

“Oh, that’s awesome,” Kent says. He grins brightly at Tomas. A little too brightly, maybe—didn’t he say just a minute ago that he’s not a fan of the press? He looks almost too enthusiastic now, like not all of it is real.

Tomas isn’t sure whether to chirp him about his earlier reporter comment. He looks out over the city, then back at Kent. Kent crosses his legs, shifting a little further down the bench. There’s silence for a moment. “So,” Kent says. “You moved here for work, then?”

“Yeah, just over two weeks ago,” Tomas says.

“Cool,” Kent says. He grins at Tomas again, then stands up and wanders over to the glass wall of the pod. “What do you think of Vegas so far?”

Tomas gets up as well and follows him. The view over Vegas is spectacular from up here: skyscrapers and opulent hotels basking in the desert sun. He stops next to Kent. Kent glances over and flashes him a smile. Was Kent smiling this much before? He probably was, but Tomas hadn’t noticed it until now.

He remembers he’s been asked a question. “It’s very over the top,” he says, gesturing at the city below. “But I like my new apartment. Shame I went down one spot in the wildcard standings when I moved, though. Before I came here I worked for the Wild.”

Kent chuckles. “Don’t worry, we’re only two points behind ‘em. We’ll get them next week.” He grins at Tomas again before he turns back to the Vegas skyline. No, he grins in Tomas’ direction—he’s not actually meeting his eyes, Tomas realizes.

Why is he overanalyzing Kent’s expressions all of a sudden? He glances at Kent again, but Kent’s head is turned the other way, and for some reason it puts Tomas on edge that he can’t see his face. He leans forward over the banister that runs midway along the glass. “Honestly, I want the team I work for to do well, but I’m really a Habs fan,” he says.

Kent glances at him. “Right, you’re from Quebec,” he says, flashing the smirk Tomas knows well from his interviews. “I guess the Habs are all right. So long as it’s not the Coyotes, you know.”

Tomas had watched an Aces-Coyotes game last month, and it had been brutal and penalty-filled. Kent took two of the penalties, though if Tomas recalls correctly, he also scored the game-winning goal. “Desert rivalry, huh?” he says.

Kent laughs, and it sounds sincere, but it also sounds different than five minutes ago. There's something off about Kent, but he can't pinpoint it, and it makes him uncomfortable.

“Yeah, I guess. All I know is the Coyotes suck,” Kent says, still with his charming smirk to soften the words.

The Ferris wheel pod has started its slow descent. Tomas says, “So long as you never say that about the Habs."

“Nah, they’re fine,” Kent says. “As a franchise, I mean; not as a hockey team right now,” he adds. “What are they, sixth in the Atlantic?”

Tomas groans. “Please don’t,” he says. “ _Crisse_ , it’s such a disaster.”

Kent chuckles. “I’ve been there,” he says, which is true. The Aces have been cup contenders pretty much every season since they drafted Kent, but there’s been two seasons where they fell almost to the bottom of the table after a couple of their players got injured. “It gets better eventually.”

“If you draft first overall, maybe,” Tomas grumbles. Kent laughs again. Tomas leans forward on the banister to catch a last glimpse of Vegas before they’re too low to see much. When he glances over at Kent, Kent has turned away again.

The pod comes to a halt at the bottom of the Linq. Kent hasn't been anything but friendly, but Tomas somehow still expects him to make some excuse and leave, rather than continue the tour. He doesn’t even know why he expects it.

“So, that was the Linq,” Kent says. He glances at his phone, and Tomas is already preparing to hear an 'oh, I just got an important text', when Kent says, “We can go to the Bellagio next.” He grins at Tomas without meeting his eyes, and gestures for Tomas to follow him.

Kent hadn't seemed tense in the pod, just _off_ somehow, but he still looks more relaxed now that they’re back on the ground. Tomas has a sudden thought that maybe the whole thing was just because Kent is secretly scared of heights. There's a ridiculous idea.

Kent flashes him another smirk and says, “So, the Habs, huh? What’s your thoughts on Carey Price’s injury earlier this season?”

         -------------  


They end up at an Italian bistro after Kent has shown Tomas all of the must-see touristy bits of the Strip—which is most of the Strip. Kent isn’t really sure why he agreed to dinner when he could’ve easily said he had other plans and gone home after the actual sightseeing was done. He’s feeling off-kilter, too alert and too tired all at once. It’s probably because Tomas is a reporter. He knows some of his teammates like hanging out with the Aces press staff and the local reporters who come to most of their games and practices, but Kent has never enjoyed any aspect of having press around. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with reporters. It’s just that they make him feel on edge.

Tomas doesn’t have a microphone out; they’re obviously off the record. There’s really no reason to be worried about sitting here with someone who writes for the Aces. But Kent is allowed to have his weird quirks, right? Not liking reporters just happens to be one of them.

“Do you know what you’ll be having tonight?” their waiter says next to them, and Kent looks up from his menu, startled.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, and quickly picks something to order.

Tomas orders too, adding, “Without the eggplant and the peppers, please.” The waiter notes it down and takes their menus.

“Not a fan of eggplant?” Kent says, just for something to say.

“No,” Tomas says, pulling a disgusted face.

Kent grins at him. “Or peppers?”

“Or most vegetables, honestly,” Tomas says with a chuckle. “Or peanuts, or ginger, or a bunch of other spices. My mom tried everything. She wanted me to like _cuisine Ivoirienne_ , but she had to give up eventually.”

He shifts and his jean-clad leg brushes Kent’s ankle under the tiny table. Kent can feel his face doing something odd and quickly schools it into his usual smirk.

He doesn’t _mind_. He doesn’t mind that Tomas is gay. He doesn’t want Tomas to think that he minds. Hockey players have a reputation, and fuck knows Jack got a lot of shit after he came out, and that’s… that’s not okay. He doesn’t want Tomas to think he’s like that.

Kent pulls his feet a little closer to his chair.

Tomas looks thoughtful, like he’s about to say something—has he noticed Kent moving away from him?

Kent’s phone buzzes on the table next to him. It’s impolite, but he scrambles for it anyway.

 **Ashley [7:03 pm]:** Are you around tonight? My roommate is the worst & I need to rant about it

He looks up at Tomas. “It’s my sister, mind if I respond?” Tomas waves for him to go ahead, so he quickly composes an answer.

 **Kent [7:04 pm]:** this is y u shld just let me pay 4 an aprtmnt u dnt have 2 share

 **Kent [7:05 pm]:** im out w a friend rn

 **Kent [7:05 pm]:** ill give u a call when im home

 **Ashley [7:05 pm]:** You’re totally right. Buy me a yacht too? And a PONY???

 **Ashley [7:06 pm]:** PS: Your chat speak is embarrassing

 **Ashley [7:06 pm]:** Talk later!

He puts his phone away and looks back at Tomas, who’s pulled out his own phone but puts it on the table when Kent does. “How’s your sister?” Tomas asks.

Kent pushes down the instinct to stay away from personal stuff. They’re off the record, and besides, even on the record, most reporters thankfully don’t want to hear about his family. “Yeah, she’s all right. Something about her roommate, but I’ll call her later,” he says.

“What’s her name?” Tomas asks.

“The roommate?” Kent smirks.

“Your sister, smartass.”

“Ashley.” Without meaning to, he adds, “She’s studying at Northwestern.”

“Oh, cool,” Tomas says. “I have a friend from high school who went there. What’s her major?”

“Human communication with an adjunct major in international studies,” Kent says. “She’s a junior—she’s 23, but she did volunteer work for a year and a half after high school, interning at an NGO in Uganda.” It’s not hard to talk about Ashley once he gets going; he’s way too proud of her.

“That’s awesome,” Tomas says. “What did the NGO do?”

“Resettlement,” Kent says. “Like, when kids got separated from their families and ended up in orphanages, but they weren’t really orphans, you know? So the organization would, like, do campaigns to stop the orphanages from trafficking them overseas, and get the kids back to their parents.”

“Nice,” Tomas says. “So she was an intern? What did they have her do?”

Before Kent knows it, the waiter shows up with their food and he realizes he’s been talking about Ashley’s volunteer work and her studies at Northwestern for twenty minutes. Tomas seems genuinely interested, though. He keeps asking questions and looking like he really wants to know the answer, even though they’re just talking about Kent’s sister and not about Vegas or hockey or any of the stuff that people normally want to ask Kent about.

It’s… It’s nice. By the time they’re walking back to the parking garage, Kent feels a lot more content and a lot less wary than a couple of hours before. He actually kind of wants to keep talking to him.

“Thanks for showing me around,” Tomas says, when they’ve reached his fuck-ugly tragedy of a car.

“Yeah, no problem. It was fun,” Kent says, and he means it, too.

“I’ll see you at the rink,” Tomas says. He smiles warmly.

At the sight of it, something clenches in Kent’s stomach, weird and sudden and uncomfortable. And nice. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “See you there.”

Tomas turns toward his pile of rust, and Kent crosses the tarmac to where Carmen Electra is gleaming red under the industrial lighting of the garage. Half a minute later, he’s behind the wheel. He hears Tomas’ engine come to life across the floor.

His hands are clenched on the wheel all of a sudden, and he makes an effort to relax them. He pulls out his phone to text Ashley.

 **Kent [8:53 pm]:** omw home

 **Kent [8:53 pm]:** call u in 30

He puts his phone down on the passenger seat and slides his key into the ignition. Carmen comes to life with her satisfying purr.

Kent takes a deep breath and drives home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation for the French in Ch1:
> 
> “Non, Émilie, j’regrette pas d’avoir déménagé à Vegas.” = No, Émilie, I don't regret moving to Vegas. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) to talk to me about my boy Kent. 
> 
> Also I'd love to hear if any of my readers are fans of IRL hockey, because (as you can probably tell) I'm a huge fan and tried to make my story fit in with real hockey. (Obviously in this 'verse, there are no Golden Knights. The Schooners are in the Pacific with the Aces, the Aeros are in the Central, and the Falcs are in the Metro.) Come yell with me about what your favorite team is, or about, like, what you think Kent's point totals would be or what kind of contract he has or how many Hart trophies he's won or what his style is on the ice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back for chapter two! Thanks to everyone who subscribed and/or commented and/or kudosed, you're all awesome and I love you.
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French translations. English provided in the end notes, though hopefully in most cases it should be reasonably clear from context what's being said :)
> 
> Reminder that this fic carries a blanket warning for homophobic incidents, so tread carefully and take care of yourself! 
> 
> In this chapter: bland press interviews, terrible reality TV, and we get to meet Kit!

**Zach** @RealMrZachary · 56m

3 for 3? Swoops isn’t worth a cent more than 2m. His contract is daylight robbery!

|

 **Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 46m

SHHH, no one tell @LVAces!

 

 **Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 30m

Swoops is here to stay!! Only thing that’ll make this better is a win tonight… #CoyotesVsAces

  
         -------------

The clang of Willie Hofmeister’s shot hitting the post echoes around the nearly-empty rink.

“I know I said ‘stop aiming for the middle of the goal’, but you’re overcompensating,” Kent says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hofmeister says. “Just a couple more. I’m going to get it right.” He’d gotten his call-up from the AHL just this week, and Kent has to admire his dedication to staying with the Aces. He’s been working hard, and it’s beginning to look like Volley, their third-line winger, might be out for the season. So it’s not surprising that the team has solidified Hofmeister’s nickname as Maestro—they all suspect he’s here to stay for the foreseeable future.

“One more,” Kent says. “It’s game day, kid, save some energy for tonight.”

“Just pass it.” Maestro taps his stick against the ice impatiently. He took off his helmet earlier, since they’re just passing and shooting. His dark hair flops when he gestures again for Kent to pass to him. Kid’s got good flow. Tall, dark and handsome—he’s probably going to be a heartthrob with the fans if he manages to stay up in the NHL.

Kent swivels around and hooks his stick behind one of the pucks in a pile on the blue line. “Last one today, make it count,” he says, and then he skates off back to the starting position of the play they’re running.

There’s a couple of guys doing faceoffs at center ice, but he circles around them and comes back up with Maestro, who’s skated back as well to simulate a turnover situation. Kent passes him the puck, and Maestro takes it, dekes their imaginary opponent, and hits the puck with a backhand shot.

“Nice!” Kent calls out when Maestro’s stick connects and the puck skids into the lower left corner of the net, an inch from the post.

“That was still too soft,” Maestro grumbles.

“Nah,” Kent says. “Definitely more power in it than the first ones we did. Nice work on making sure your shoulder’s at the right angle when you’re taking the shot. Come on, man, let’s get back to the locker room and leave these guys to it.”

Maestro is still grumbling when they step off the ice, but then Kent didn’t really expect anything different. Over the past couple of days, it’s become clear that the guy is the biggest perfectionist Kent’s ever met.

They’re facing the Coyotes at home for the last time in the regular season. The Coyotes are their biggest rivals, and the games are always hyped up, so Kent isn’t surprised that there’s a bigger-than-usual camera crew waiting in the press space between the rink and the locker room. Maybe they were filming while he and Maestro were working, too, though PR usually keeps a lid on the number of cameras at practice.

Kent showers and is just pulling his shirt over his head when Esther-from-PR appears beside him and gestures to the other side of the locker room. The camera crew and a few more reporters have gathered in the press corner.

“You’re up. It’s the usual crew, plus ESPN,” Esther says.

Kent grabs his snapback and fits it over his unruly hair. He’s kind of sore from a check he took at practice and he’d really like to go home for lunch and a nap, but doing press is part of the gig, especially when you’re the star center of the team. “Sure,” he says.

“They’re playing up the rivalry angle. Just keep it short, try not to get into last game, except to mention that we won it,” Esther says, which is—yeah, the last Coyotes game was particularly hard-fought. He thinks Krups and Carly both got majors, and Kent himself added two minutes to this season’s penalty totals.

“Yup,” he tells Esther, and then he slides onto the bench where the reporters have clustered. The camera is a little too in his face, or maybe that’s just his imagination. He doesn’t like interviews that much anyway, and he’s not a huge fan of ESPN, especially because they send different reporters every time. They’re not based in Vegas and don’t cover morning skates for every game, so they just send whoever is available to cover whatever game they think is noteworthy.

He realizes with a shock that Tomas is among the reporters. Kent hasn’t seen him since their sightseeing thing a couple of days ago. Tomas is… He stands out in the group. Probably because he’s the only Black reporter in a cluster of white people, though Kent doesn’t recall having his eyes drawn almost irresistibly to other Black journalists.

He swallows down a sudden rush of something—nausea? Maybe that check was harder than he thought—and focuses on the interview. He’s planning to give the first question to one of the regulars. Maybe Leah from _Las Vegas Now_ ; he knows her pretty well and she asks good questions. But the ESPN guy is already talking. “Your last game against the Coyotes was pretty rough. What do you expect tonight?”

Straight into it with the dirty-play angle, then. “We’re just going to give it our best,” Kent says. “Last time, yeah, it was rough—” He catches Esther pulling a face from the corner of his eye, but really, the reporter said it first and he’s not _getting into it_ , just stating facts. “But tonight is a different game. We’ve been working hard to figure out our strategies to respond to their play, so we’re just going to go out and skate our best tonight.”

“You’re in the fourth spot in the division right now. If you lose tonight you’ll be in fifth,” the reporter says. That’s only true if the Kings win their game tonight, but apparently that kind of nuance is too much for ESPN. “Do you think you can make the playoffs this year?”

“There’s still almost two months left to the season,” Kent says, “and I know we’ve got a good team. We know what it takes to make it to the playoffs and succeed.”

The ESPN guy seems to want another question, but Kent motions to Leah instead. “What’s it like to have Yevgeni Tschida back in practice?” she asks.

He grins at her, happy to have a question that’s not about the Coyotes. “Yeah, it’s great to have Skids back, obviously,” Kent says. “He missed three games, of course, and he’s a big part of our blue line, so it’s been good to have him back on the ice. He’s an important part of the team.”

 “The Coyotes’ first line has been their strongest by far,” another reporter says. That’s true, he supposes, though it might be more due to the fact that their other lines have been crap. “Is there anything you’ve been doing to prepare for their first line?”

Kent shrugs a little and resists the urge to trash-talk the Coyotes. “They’ve got some great forwards,” he says. “But we prepare for every team we face. We’ve seen their tape, we’re working on our own plays and strategies, and that’s what we do for every game we play. Their first line isn’t any different.”

“The Coyotes’ first defensive pair has been giving other teams difficulty over the last few weeks,” another reporter says, which is a stretch because the Coyotes might have a good first pairing, but they’ve been losing games anyway. This reporter is probably the Coyotes guy, Kent guesses—the man doesn’t look like he likes Kent very much, and Kent is usually a hit with the press even if the feeling’s not mutual. “Do you think the Aces have what it takes to break through that combination?”

Kent grins at him, and the guy just scowls. Definitely Coyotes press. “I think our forward lines work together well,” he says. “We’re scoring based on fast skating and making smart decisions on where the puck has to go, and I think that way we continue to be a challenge for any defensive pairing that goes up against us.”

A couple of people try to ask him a question all at once, then, but Kent glances at Tomas, so the other reporters fall silent. “What’s your view on the way Willie Hofmeister has been performing on the team since Torben Voll was injured?” he asks. Like most of the reporters, he’s got a recording device out. He sounds different than he did last Saturday. More business-like, or maybe it’s that he’s making an effort to mask his accent a little.

Kent realizes he still needs to actually answer the question, so Tomas can go and write his _how’s Hofmeister doing_ angle for nhl.com. “I think he fits into the team well,” he says. “It’s always a transition for guys to come up from the American League, but he’s adjusted quickly. He’s a young player and you always have to see how it goes, how someone does in the NHL. But he’s been working hard, and he’s been a good addition to our fourth line, and it’s great to see him put up points and develop here as he plays with us.”

There’s a couple more questions about tonight’s game, and then he decides it’s been long enough and he can beg off. “All right, that’s it, guys,” he says, flashing a grin.

There’s a chorus of “Thanks Kent”, and then he can make his escape from the press corner. The reporters file out—owing to his bit of shooting practice with Maestro, Kent was the last guy they talked to today.

Kent heads back to his stall to grab his stuff. Carly, Scotty and Kimmy are on the bench a couple of feet away, Scotty stuffing a shirt into his bag and the other two on either side of him. “If you’ve got a problem with it…” Carly is saying.

“Look, I don’t have a _problem_ with them,” Scotty says. He zips his bag shut and straightens up. “I just don’t really want them in my locker room.”

“Who?” Kent says unthinkingly as he adjusts his snapback and grabs his bag.

“That new press guy, you know?” Scotty says. Something cold and heavy settles in Kent’s stomach. “The black one. Apparently, he’s gay. And like, whatever, if people wanna do that, it’s not my problem. I’m just saying, I don’t think he should be in here if he’s a fag.”

“Right,” Kimmy says. “We’re naked in here all the time. I don’t want to have to worry about some reporter ogling me.”

“There’s female reporters,” Carly points out, grinning.

“No, they can ogle me, by all means,” Scotty says, and he’s laughing now. “Just not dudes, you know? It’s gross.”

None of them are really paying attention to Kent anymore. He bites his lip hard enough that it hurts.

“Just shut up about it, Scotty. You’re not that good-looking anyway, so you’re probably safe,” Carly says, and now Kimmy is laughing at Scotty, and a minute later they’ve all packed up, and it’s just Kent in the locker room.

His hands are shaking, so he sits down on the bench and folds his arms and presses his nails into his biceps until it stops.

He should’ve said something. About how gay guys don’t ogle their teammates, maybe, or about how Tomas is a professional and wouldn’t do that, or about how _fag_ isn’t a word Scotty should use. That’s what Swoops would say, he knows, if Swoops had overheard that.

Kent doesn’t know why he never manages to say something. He wants to be an ally, or whatever. The way Swoops is, who always manages to speak up.

He takes a deep breath and stands up, rubbing his fingers over the crescent-shaped marks on his upper arms. His shirt doesn’t quite cover them up, so he puts on his jacket, even though it’s probably warm enough outside to go without.

Does Jack deal with this bullshit in his locker room?

But it’s different for Jack. If Jack had to deal with this, it’d be—that’d be awful, because he’s actually bisexual. Kent’s just… Kent is perpetually single and kind of a hopeless romantic and he had a weird phase when he was a teenager.

He grabs his bag and slings it over his shoulder. The hallway outside the locker room is empty, but when he turns the corner he almost walks directly into Tomas.

“Oh, hey, Kent,” Tomas says. He sounds like he had last Saturday, not like he did just now in the locker room.

“Hey,” Kent says. He should brush him off, get to his car, but he doesn’t move. He’s tired and he feels wrong, but he grins at Tomas anyway.

“How was skate?” Tomas asks. Kent hesitates, not sure how to answer, and Tomas smiles a little and adds, “Asking as a friend, not a reporter.”

A friend. Kent bites his lip. “Yeah, it was all right. Diver checked me a little harder than he meant to, so, you know, kinda feeling it in my shoulder. Uh, we are off the record, right?” His coach would murder him if he told a reporter that his shoulder is sore, even though it’s not really an injury, just a bruise.

“Definitely,” Tomas says.

“Okay,” Kent says. “It’s not a big deal, anyway.” He smirks. “I’ll get him back for it later.”

Tomas chuckles. “How are you feeling about the game tonight?”

“Off the record? We’re going to crush them.” Kent lets his smirk widen a little. “Should be fun.”

“Better than the All-Stars?” Tomas asks. There’s crinkles around his eyes when he smiles. “I think you said at that party that you’d rather watch _Are You The One_. I hope a Coyotes game isn’t quite that bad.”

“First of all I was really drunk,” Kent says, and Tomas laughs. He has a nice laugh. “Also, _Are You The One_ only airs on Thursdays, so it’s not a contender for what I want to be doing tonight,” Kent continues. Tomas chuckles again.

It’s Thursday tomorrow, and Kent doesn’t have a game then, and Tomas just said they were friends.

“Wanna come over and watch it tomorrow night?” Kent says, without really thinking it through.

Tomas blinks at him. “Really?” he says.

It isn’t _that_ weird of a proposal, is it? But apparently it is, if it deserves that much surprise. “I mean, you don’t—” he starts.

“Sorry, I mean, that sounds like fun,” Tomas says, before Kent can backtrack by more than four words.

“Okay, cool,” Kent says, not really sure what he just did. For fuck’s sake, this guy is a reporter, and he’s—Kent isn’t like Scotty, he _isn’t_ , but maybe he doesn’t want to be around Tomas all the time knowing that he’s—

“Let me know your address,” Tomas says. “I should get back to work. Gotta write my preview for tonight’s game.”

“Yeah, okay,” Kent says. “I’ll text you.”

“See you at the rink,” Tomas says.

He’s disappeared around the corner a few seconds later, and Kent finally makes his way out to his car.

  
         -------------

 **Monica** @Amazing_Monica · 2h

Ummmm I just got a ride from @kvparson90???

|

 **Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 2h

what??

|

 **Monica** @Amazing_Monica · 2h

My car broke down AND my phone died and so I was just, like, sort of crying by the side of the road trying to decide what to do, and then out of nowhere this red convertible pulls up and it’s KENT FREAKING PARSON???

|

 **Monica** @Amazing_Monica · 2h

And he asks if I’m OK, so I explain what happened and he’s like “oh you wanna use my phone, call someone? No, you know what, just get in, there’s a garage a couple blocks away and you can charge your phone on the way there”

|

 **Monica** @Amazing_Monica · 2h

& he drove me to the garage and asked what I do and was all “ooh a nurse, that’s amazing, your patients must love you”. He was so nice?? Of course when I got home I realized the crying had ruined my mascara

|

 **Monica** @Amazing_Monica · 1h                                                                                                        

So that’s the story of how @kvparson90 saved my life while I looked like panda bear, thank you SO MUCH KENT

|

 **Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 1h

damn girl, so so lucky

|

 **Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 43m

hey @Amazing_Monica no problem & u looked fine ;)

  
         -------------

Kent’s apartment is just off the Strip, which is exactly what Tomas would have guessed. He uses the code Kent gave him to get into the underground garage beneath the building. His trusted old jeep is a little out of place among all the fancy cars that are already parked there.

He takes the key out of the ignition and grabs his phone. He has new texts from Kent.

 **Kent [7:32 pm]:** btw just text when ur in the garage

 **Kent [7:32 pm]:** the elevator needs a key card so ill come let u up

It’s not really surprising that the Aces’ best-paid player lives in ridiculous opulence, but it still makes Tomas roll his eyes a little. The apartment complex he moved into last month doesn’t even have a doorman. It just has a main entrance that should be locked, which people leave open half the time because the buzzer isn’t working and they can’t be bothered to come down to let people in.

 **Tomas [7:41 pm]:** Cool, I’ve parked, bottom floor

Kent’s response is almost instantaneous.

 **Kent [7:41 pm]:** k there in a min

Tomas locks his jeep and makes his way to the elevators, one of which indeed has a little key card reader next to it. He watches the number above it go all the way up to 44—the one Kent said he lives on—then down surprisingly quickly to L and then -4.

“Hey,” Kent says when the doors ding open.

“Hi,” Tomas says as he steps in. “Good to see you.”

“Yeah,” Kent says as he hits the button to go back up to the top floor. He’s in jeans and a shirt, his hair as messy as always. He looks, well, really good.

Tomas leans against the side of the elevator. The display above the button panel races through its numbers again. Kent is leaning against the wall on the other side of the elevator. He doesn’t say anything, and the silence is a little awkward, but Tomas doesn’t mind. Hard to avoid a little awkwardness now and then when he’s making new friends, which is a mission he’s committed to now that he’s moved to a new town.

“Were you at the rink today?” Tomas asks when the elevator has almost made it to the top of the building. He knows there was no official Aces practice since he hadn’t needed to do interviews, so he’d focused instead on writing a feature on the Aces’ AHL depth.

Kent starts a little when he speaks, but then smiles at him. Tomas can’t help but dwell again on how good he looks, just for a moment. It’s hardly a secret that Kent Parson is good-looking—Tomas had known that since he was seventeen and watched Kent tear through the Q and get drafted first overall. It’s just even more noticeable up close.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “There wasn’t a team skate, but I worked with a couple of the young kids on deking and slapshots, and I did some speed training. Then this afternoon I coached.”

The elevator dings and the doors open. Tomas follows Kent down a hallway with carpets that look like a square foot of them would cost Tomas a month’s pay check. He almost feels bad for walking on them on his shoes.

“Your kids’ teams, right?” Tomas asks as Kent halts in front of one of the doors. He’s read about Kent’s volunteer work before, and someone in PR definitely mentioned it at some point while talking him through all the player activities they use for promotional purposes. Tomas is probably going to have to interview him about it eventually.

“Yeah.” Kent steps inside and leads Tomas through a short hallway into the living room, which is… Wow. Tomas thinks his apartment probably fits into it in its entirety. There are wide floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall, looking out over the brightly lit city. The floor is dark wood, and most of the rest of the space is muted greys and browns with the occasional bright splash of color. There’s a light grey carpet that looks even softer than the one in the hallway, lying underneath a wide dark grey couch with a chaise longue. The room is big enough that the couch is quite far from the TV, but the TV makes up for it by being enormous.

Kent has wandered off to the other side of the living room, where there’s an open-plan kitchen with a breakfast bar, with cabinets in the same color as the floor so it looks like they flow into each other.

“Want a beer?” Kent says.

Tomas realizes he’s still in the space between the hallway and the living room, stuck staring at Kent’s apartment that looks like it materialized out of an _Elle Decor_ ‘How the Rich Live’ photoshoot.

“Uh, sure,” he says.

Kent looks back at him and smirks. “Like it?” he says.

“You have a…” He trails off, looking around as he tries to describe this extravagance in words that aren’t either insulting or French. “Very pink cat tree,” he ends up finishing, because there is, indeed, a cat tree over by one of the windows that is such a hot shade of pink it makes his eyes water.

“Oh, you haven’t met Kit yet!” Kent says, suddenly beaming. “Hang on.” He crosses the room and disappears into a doorway, returning a moment later with a beautiful reddish-brown long-haired cat in his arms. Tomas recognizes her because at least 95% of Kent’s tweets are re-posts from Instagram and at least 90% of his Instagram posts are pictures of his cat.

“Kit, this is Tomas,” Kent says, dead serious. “Tomas, this is Kit Purrson.”

Tomas chuckles. “Nice to meet you, Kit. Can I pet her, or is she one of the ones that’s going to tear my face off if I try?”

Kent looks insulted at the very idea, even though Tomas has definitely known cats like that. “You can pet her. She’s friendly,” he says, so Tomas reaches out and lets her sniff at his fingers, then carefully scratches her head. “See?” Kent says.

Kit lets out a little meow and then starts purring, and Kent looks so much like a proud parent that Tomas has trouble keeping his face straight. He strokes down her back. His hand brushes along Kent’s arm where he’s holding her and Kent twitches, taking a step back and putting Kit down. She strides off toward the cat tree and takes two jumps to get to the top platform, where she immediately curls up into a ball.

Kent smiles brightly at Tomas. “I’ll get you your beer,” he says. He gestures toward the couch, so Tomas sits down at one end.

When Kent comes back, he hands Tomas his beer and then sits down at the other end of the couch. It’s a huge couch, and there’s something kind of awkward about sitting so far apart, or maybe Tomas is just imagining that. Kent grabs the remote and finds the right channel, but there’s still something else on, so he turns the volume down.

Over by the window, Kit jumps down from her cat tree and wanders over to the couch, where she takes a gracious leap onto Kent’s lap. “Hey baby,” Kent coos, grimacing as she turns and presumably digs her claws into his skin. After a moment, she curls up and he runs his hand over her back.

“How did you get her?” Tomas asks.

Kent looks up, a little startled. “Oh,” he says. “Well, I kind of always wanted a cat.”

“Yeah?” Tomas says.

“Yeah, my best friend in kindergarten had one,” Kent says. He scratches behind Kit’s ear and Tomas can hear her purr from all the way across the couch. “But my mom would never let me, so I figured, you know, I’ll just get one when I’m all grown up.” He flashes a smirk at Tomas, and it’s really not fair how attractive that is. “I couldn’t when I was on my ELC, though, ‘cause I was sharing an apartment with Connor O’Brien at the time—he’s with the Stars now, you know?” Tomas nods. “Anyway, he hated cats, so he vetoed it. But when I got my next contract, I bought this place.” He gestures around. “Which was nice, but also pretty quiet when it’s just me. So then I remembered nobody could stop me from getting a cat now.”

There’s something different about Kent here in his apartment. He’s worlds away from the guy in front of the cameras, media-trained to within an inch of his life. But he’s also different than he was when they were sightseeing. Here, he’s loose-limbed and easy-going. There’s something soft about him as he talks about how much he loves his cat. It’s like a layer of pretense has been stripped away and Tomas has accessed the next level of Kent, the more genuine one.

“Did you get her as a kitten?” Tomas asks.

“No, she was from a shelter. She used to live with this couple, but then they had a kid and the kid was allergic,” Kent says. “Kit was, like, maybe a year old? She was only in the shelter for three days before I dropped by. It was lucky, because the people at the shelter said she’s very adoptable and she wouldn’t have been in there long.” He looks down fondly at Kit.

“Previously on _Are You The One_ ,” says the voiceover on the TV.

“Ooh,” Kent says delightedly, turning the volume up. “Have you seen the last episode?”

Tomas hides his smile at Kent’s enthusiasm by focusing on the TV. “No, you guys had a game.”

“I know,” Kent says. “I DVR-ed it, obviously. But you have been watching, right?”

Tomas doesn’t normally admit to watching this kind of trash, but Kent is clearly worse than him. “Yeah, I think I only missed the second episode and then last week’s. What did I miss?”

“Okay, okay, so first of all…” Kent gestures at the screen, where a woman is making out with—

“That’s not Johnny,” Tomas says.

“Yeah, so she cheated on him,” Kent says.

“Holy shit, seriously? But last time she told him she loved him,” Tomas says. The stuff of human drama. He shakes his head at the woman on the screen.

“Right, so now Johnny still says she’s his perfect match, and he wants to forgive her. It’s kind of adorable,” Kent says, even though that sounds like a bad idea to Tomas. “Anyway, she says she’s gotta be this other guy’s soulmate,” Kent says. “Amazing, right?”

The voice-over says, “Anna-Marie and David went to the Truth Booth.”

“No way they were a match,” Tomas says. “Didn’t he say he’d never date a blonde?”

“He did!” Kent grins at him. “But, you know, us blondes are irresistible. And anyway, I know nobody thought they were a match, but I guess love takes many forms, because…” He gestures at the screen as it flashes “Perfect match!” and there’s a chorus of whoops and screams from the TV.

“ _Étonnant_ ,” Tomas mutters. Kent raises an eyebrow, so he adds, “Stunning.”

“ _J’ai habité au Québec pendant trois ans_ ,” Kent says easily, with only the slightest American accent. He smiles at Tomas, flashing his perfect teeth. “My French is half decent.” From accent alone Tomas is willing to bet that Kent’s French is a damn sight better than most anglophones who come up through the Q. “I like your accent,” Kent adds. Then, like an afterthought, “It sounds like home,” which does things to Tomas’ heart that he wasn’t prepared for.

Kent is already looking back at the screen as he rattles off, “Ooh, so they’re skipping it in the recap, but the matching ceremony was _amazing_. The guys were picking, so Johnny, you know, the guy Katie cheated on, he picked Katie as his match, and she was fucking _furious_ because she’s _in love_ with that other guy now. I felt kinda bad for Johnny because he’s obviously smitten, the poor guy. And it looks like they might be right, because they had more correct matches than the time before. So now everyone thinks Johnny and Katie probably _are_ a match, and Johnny loves it but Katie hates it.”

“Damn,” Tomas says, grinning at the TV. Kent’s enthusiasm is infectious, even if he’s entirely too optimistic about these assholes on TV. Tomas finds himself sitting up straight, way more invested in the show than he probably should be.

“Oh my god, these two are the best,” Kent says, when a different couple appears on screen. “She’s hot,” he adds.

 _Can’t relate_ , Tomas thinks. He stops himself before he says it, and then he wonders why. He’s not usually shy about his sexuality, and he’s already out to Kent. But he still doesn’t say it. “Yeah, they’re cute,” he says after a moment. “I’m rooting for them. They seem like some of the least terrible people on the show. Maybe they’ll get a shot at confirming their match today.”

The contestants do a challenge. Tomas makes fun of them as they go, while Kent keeps insisting they’re doing their best. Tomas can’t decide if he’s kidding, or if he’s really rooting for these awful reality TV people. Fortunately, the cute couple wins and gets to go on a date, which they both agree is a good outcome.

“Nice,” Tomas says, taking a sip of his beer as the show goes to commercial.

“Yeah, this is great,” Kent says. “Do you think they’re a match?”

“I hope so. Maybe they’ll get to go to the truth booth and we can find out,” he says. “Clearly these two are the only ray of light in this cast.”

“Ella isn’t so bad either,” Kent argues. “And what about Danny? His heart’s in the right place. Anyway, these two are really cute,” he continues. “Last episode he got her actual flowers from the garden, it was adorable.” He’s got his beer in one hand, and his other hand is buried in Kit’s long fur. Tomas has never really been a cat person, but Kent looks softer somehow with his pile of fluff on his lap.

Tomas looks back at the screen where there’s some kind of laundry detergent commercial on. “Yeah, they’re the only decent people on the entire show,” he says. “I feel like Ella has a mean streak a mile wide. And didn’t Danny kiss three different women in the third episode? If you ask me, everyone but this one couple is genuinely awful this season.”

“Judgy,” Kent says with a smirk.

“Absolutely,” Tomas says, unapologetic.

Kent grins at him, and then the commercial break ends, and the show starts up again.

They trade commentary back and forth as the two couples go on a date and then the house votes to put the cute couple in the Truth Booth.

“Oh my god, they’d better be a match,” Kent says as the pair step into the booth holding hands. The suspenseful music builds up, and then the show goes to commercial.

“ _Crisse de Câlisse,”_ Tomas grumbles.

Kent smirks at him, and when he speaks again, he’s gone back to French. “ _They always do that, man, how did you not see that coming?_ ”

Tomas just glares at the TV. “ _I’m not surprised, just disappointed,_ ” he says. It’s nice to be able to speak his native tongue. It’s the first time he’s really had the chance since moving to Vegas, other than when he calls Émilie or his parents.

Kent laughs, which is pretty gratifying. “Want another beer?” he asks, gently lifting Kit off his lap. She lets him set her down on the couch next to him, letting out a _mrow_ when he gets up.

“Still gotta drive, do you have some juice or something?” Tomas says.

“Sure,” Kent responds as he walks to the kitchen.

Tomas holds out his hand when Kent comes back to his side of the couch, but Kent puts the glass down on the table and Tomas is stuck with his hand in mid-air for a second before he puts it back in his lap. Kent notices, chuckles, and looks away. There’s something weird about the moment, like it’s more than just the awkwardness of a second-time hangout, more than just the fact that they haven’t settled into patterns yet. It’s like in the Ferris wheel; like being surprised when Kent asked him to come over and not really knowing _why_ he was surprised _._

“So how’s Vegas so far? Making friends yet?” Kent asks.

“Well, I’m here now,” Tomas says, and Kent looks a little startled, like he didn’t realize what they were doing. “I mean, I only moved a couple of weeks ago, so it’s still a bit lonely sometimes, but I’ve got a few colleagues I think I could get along with. I go rock climbing sometimes, the indoor kind, or at least I used to in St Paul. So I’m thinking I’ll pick that back up, see if I can meet some people that way.”

Kent nods at him. “Nice, yeah. How long did you live in St Paul?”

“Year and a half,” he says. “I didn’t think I’d be so adventurous, you know. I barely ever left Trois-Rivières until I was eighteen, but since college I’ve never lived anywhere for more than two years. We’ll see if Vegas is where I end up settling down.” He kind of doubts it. It’s not that he hates it here, and he’ll give it more time, but he doesn’t feel like him and Vegas are a match made in heaven.

The commercial break ends, so they both focus on the TV again. “Come on,” Kent says, leaning forward as the show replays the shot of Alex and Daria stepping into the booth. Tomas feels his own irrational investment in the show grip him again.

The screen flashes the words “Perfect Match!” as the group in the house erupts into shouts. “Fuck yeah,” Tomas says, grinning at Kent, who grins back at him.

“Damn, these guys are good,” Kent says. “This is, like, their fourth confirmed match in seven tries. They gotta make it to a million dollars now.” On screen, the two people share a passionate kiss and then get ushered out of the booth and toward the honeymoon suite.

“Nice,” Tomas says. “And the matching ceremony just gets easier if they have this many perfect matches confirmed.”

“Exactly,” Kent says. Kit clambers back onto his lap, and he leans down to kiss the top of her head.

Some guy is in a confessional on the screen, saying, “Katie cheated on Johnny, and he still thinks she’s his match. Honestly I think he should just let go instead of pining after her when she treats him like shit.”

Tomas glances at Kent. He’s concentrating on the TV screen, and Tomas realizes he really wants to do this again. It’s weird, because there’s still that awkwardness that he can’t place, and it makes him acutely uncomfortable. Like Kent is giving off mixed messages, except Tomas can’t actually pinpoint anything negative. But Kent’s wide-eyed smiles feel unrehearsed, and he’s laughing at Tomas’ shitty jokes, and he asked how Tomas was getting settled in Vegas. Tomas feels like he’s seeing a side of Kent that maybe not that many people get to see, and he wants more of it.

He lets himself get distracted by Kent and Kit, and before he knows it, the matching ceremony is done and the group is at seven correct matches.

“Only three to go,” Kent says. “They can totally make it.”

“Do you think the directors step in to make sure they don’t get all ten matches before the last episode?” Tomas says.

Kent throws him a betrayed look. “Dude, I don’t want to think about how my shitty escapist TV is actually staged.”

Tomas throws up his hands. “Sorry,” he says, grinning.

Kent grins back, and they watch the last minute of the show—people in confessionals talking about how they’re definitely going to get it right and win the money—in silence. Once the credits have run, the channel switches to a re-run of a _Catfish_ episode.

“Have you seen this one?” Kent asks.

Tomas frowns at the screen. “I think I have, but I don’t remember what the outcome was.”

“It’s gold. Wanna watch?” Kent says.

So they end up watching _Catfish,_ Tomas giving running commentary on how unbelievable it is that people fall for this kind of stuff.

“They just want to believe in love,” Kent says, gesturing at the screen where today’s main character is being consoled after they’ve found out her true love is using fake pictures in his online profile.

“That’s no reason to give up on common sense,” Tomas argues.

They bicker about it throughout the episode, until the end credits for this one have run too and Kent pulls out his phone to look at the time. “I gotta kick you out, man,” he says, and he sounds unhappy about it. “Game tomorrow and I go to bed tragically early on the nights before.”

Tomas chuckles and stands up. “No problem,” he says.

Kent shifts, and Kit perks up and jumps off his lap with a loud meow. “Yeah, princess, I’m gonna feed you in a minute,” Kent says. He runs a hand through his hair, which sticks up in response. “So,” he says as he leads Tomas to the door. “Wanna watch the next episode together too?”

Tomas finds that he really does. “Sure,” he says. “It’s not a game night, is it? You’ve got Buffalo and Pittsburgh this weekend, then…”

“Minnesota on Monday, San Jose on Wednesday,” Kent says. “Then we leave for a roadie on the Friday morning.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m on the roadie,” Tomas says. It’ll be his first one since joining the team.  

“Right, of course,” Kent says. He runs a hand through his hair again. “Well, if this is going to be a thing, I’ll give you one of my spare key cards for the elevator,” he says.

“Already giving me the keys to your apartment?” Tomas jokes.

“Uh.” Kent takes a step back, and then he grins, and it’s more fake than any expression he’s worn tonight. He chuckles without meeting Tomas’ eyes. “Right. No, I’m just too lazy to take the elevator down. Hang on a second.”

Oh.

Tomas stares at Kent’s back as he walks to the kitchen. That first moment in the Ferris wheel, when Kent had gone from being all bro-ey to his fake camera smiles, that was right after Tomas came out, wasn’t it?

Kent comes back and holds out a key card. “Here. Don’t lose it,” he says, and he smirks, but it still looks fake.

“Thanks,” Tomas says. “I’ll see you at the rink?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, stepping around Tomas to open the door for him. “See you.”

A moment later, Tomas is in the hallway and the door clicks shut behind him. “ _Merde,_ ” he mumbles.

He looks at the key card in his hand for a moment, and then he heads down the hallway to the elevator.

  
         -------------

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 11h

New blog post: “Subtle exclusion: How the lack of Black hockey players has its roots in peewee hockey” t.co/wqLIbgPRf

 

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

The NHL just decided it isn’t going to fine Michael Trevor for calling a ref a p*ssy and a girl while he was mic’ed up.

 

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

I have a lot to say about this and I just uploaded a blog post so what the hell, I’ll say it here. Time for a twitter rant.

 

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

The NHL claims it wants to expand its viewership. A key part of that is getting more women interested in watching hockey.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

And yet, what happens here? One of their players is blatantly sexist. Uses womanhood as an insult. And it’s not even just slurs! He literally said “you’re such a girl” to insult the ref. It was caught on tape. We all heard it.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

Yes, it sounds juvenile and ridiculous. Like something you’d hear on a playground. (Which, guess what, is part of the problem!) But it reveals the core of these insults shouted on the ice. B*tch, p*ssy. These are insulting BECAUSE WE THINK WOMEN ARE LESSER.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

It’s not just hockey. It’s society. But hockey is a part of that and we need to be better. The NHL needs to step up and act. These kinds of acts should be fined. They should be worthy of suspension. Zero tolerance.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

If the NHL wants to reach out to women, guess what, this would be a good place to start. DO SOMETHING. STEP UP.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

It’s not just the NHL. We need to have a broader discussion. If this is what he says mic’ed up, what does he say in the locker room? How do his teammates respond? What do trainers do? What do fans do when the person in the seat next to them does this shit?

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

But it would make a huge difference if the NHL chose to be a leader on this issue. Which is why it’s so disappointing that they’ve decided not to fine. It lets Trevor get away with this behavior, and it sends a message to female fans. About what the NHL really cares about.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

Which is its players and its revenue, and not suspending a star forward. The NHL’s inability to step up is pathetic and absurd, and as fans we should demand accountability.

 

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

That concludes today’s twitter rant.

 

 **Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 10h

@TomasNadeau if it’s more than four tweets, it’s a blog post.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10h

Oh trust me, there will be a blog post.

 

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1h

BONUS New blog post: “What does the NHL’s decision regarding Michael Trevor say about their support for female players?” t.co/nbHElIha

 

         -------------

“Go Rebels,” Swoops says when he opens the passenger door of Kent’s car and gets in.

“The Rebels suck,” Kent says.

“That’s why they need our support, Kent,” Swoops says. “It’s important. Unity between sports.”

This is the argument they have every time they go to a UNLV basketball game, and Kent knows he’s not going to win it. “Put your damn seatbelt on, Troy, we’re going to be late and I’d hate to miss even a second of the Rebels losing yet another game.”

It’s a ten-minute drive from Swoops’ house to the Thomas & Mack Center. They get briefly derailed at the entrance when they get recognized and are asked to sign a couple of autographs, but the game hasn’t started yet by the time they find their seats.

“They’re going to win this one,” Swoops says, as he always does.

“Nope,” Kent says, because that’s the safer bet.

“Fifty bucks,” Swoops says.

“A whole fifty bucks? Are you sure you’re able to spend that much in one place?” Kent teases.

“Are you chicken?”

Kent rolls his eyes. “All right, fifty bucks.”

“Oh my god, Kent Parson?” The girl in the seat behind them leans forward excitedly. “And Jeff Troy! I—oh my god, this is so cool!”

“Want a selfie?” Kent says.

“Holy shit, would that be okay? Ezra, come on,” she says to the guy in the seat beside her. He’s wearing a UNLV sweater just like she is, and he looks painfully shy as well as incredibly excited. “You be in it too, this is the _best day of my life_.” She pulls out her phone and brings up the camera.

“Here, I’ll do it,” Kent says, since he’s in the seat in front. She hands him her phone reverently. Kent takes a moment to line up the shot so all four of them are in it.

“Thank you _so much_ ,” she says when he’s handed it back.

“Yeah, no problem, hope you enjoy the game,” Swoops says.

The two students chatter excitedly behind them. “That was two,” Kent tells Swoops under his breath.

“One point per interaction, not per fan,” Swoops mutters back. “Count doesn’t start ‘till we’re in the stadium. Also, fifty bucks says we don’t go above half a dozen today.”

“You’re on,” Kent says.

By the last minute of the first quarter, the Rebels are down eight points, and Swoops is sighing louder every time they give up the ball.

“I told you,” Kent says, but he’s leaning forward in his seat as much as Swoops is, hoping for the Rebels to squeak in another basket before the buzzer.

The visiting team scores another two points instead, and then seconds later the first quarter ends.

“Awful,” Swoops grumbles as he leans back in his seat.

“I told you,” Kent repeats.

Swoops grins at him. “Ah well, takes your mind off of today’s practice,” he says.

“Don’t even talk to me about today’s practice,” Kent grumbles. “I swear to god if coach ices any of those line combos at a game I will fucking quit.”

“There it is!” Swoops laughs at him. “I thought the famous Kent Parson could play with anyone on his line.”

“ _My_ line was fine. And if we could all just agree that Carly is a winger and not a center, the other lines would be fine too,” Kent says, growing heated as he speaks.

“This is at least the third time today we’ve had this conversation.”

“You brought it up!” Kent shakes his head at him. “Guess we’ll see what coach does tomorrow.” He catches the sound of his name from a little group of students making their way up the aisle, and glances over at them. They’re all looking at him and Swoops, so he catches the eye of one of them and winks. “Two,” he says, as the little group excitedly steps up to their seats.

“You made them come over here,” Swoops accuses.

“First of all, there’s no rules against that,” Kent says, but then the kids reach them, and whatever else he was going to say will have to wait until autographs have been signed.

The second quarter is similarly terrible, and by the end of it, the Rebels are eighteen points down.

“Why. Why do I come here with you,” Kent says when the buzzer goes off again.

“Inter-sports unity,” Swoops says. “Supporting collegiate athletics. The wonders of basketball. If I hadn’t been so short—”

“Shut up,” Kent laughs. “You’re six inches taller than me. And next time we’re going to a women’s game again, so we can actually watch UNLV win.”

“I’m in. It’ll be nice to see a win. Plus we get to support women atletes,” Swoops says. “Gotta pay attention to the social issues in sports, right?”

Kent laughs. “Sure, whatever man.”

“You know that new reporter, Tomas Nadeau, who I introduced you to at the All-Star party?” Swoops asks.

The name makes Kent’s stomach clench, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “Uh, yeah? What about him?” he says.

“He writes a blog about that stuff,” Swoops says. “Social issues in sports, I mean.”

“He does?” Kent says.

“Yeah, I mean, not for the Aces obviously,” Swoops says. “Since that would require minimal social awareness and self-reflective skills on the part of our wonderful organization, which is obviously a bridge too far. But he has a blog on the side. I’ve read a couple of his articles before. He does hockey analysis pieces, but also stuff about social justice.”

“Oh,” Kent says. “Like—Like what?”

“Like homophobia in sports,” Swoops says, and Kent’s mouth goes dry for no discernible reason.

“He said he’s, you know,” Kent mumbles.

Swoops raises an eyebrow, and when Kent doesn’t finish his sentence, he says, “Gay?”

“Yeah, that.” He wishes Swoops wouldn’t keep looking at him.

Thankfully, Swoops turns to look at the currently empty court. “I guess that’s what sparked his interest in it. You should check it out,” he says.

“Okay,” Kent says.

“I wish the Aces did more with that stuff,” Swoops says. “It’s important, you know. People should feel accepted.”

“Mmhmm,” Kent mumbles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He knows Swoops means the Aces as an organization should do more, and not really Kent specifically. But Kent sucks at speaking up, and he’s pretty sure Swoops knows it, too.

There’s a pause, and then Swoops says, “Anyway, it’s interesting. He writes about racism and sexism in hockey, too. So he’d probably approve of us giving equal attention to the Rebels’ men’s and women’s team.”

“Actually, we should probably pay more attention to the women’s team, since they can actually win games,” Kent says.

“Maybe the men could still win this one,” Swoops says, as the players come back to the court.

“Yeah, right.” They grin at each other, and then the game starts up again.

  
         -------------

The Rebels lose, so Kent wins fifty bucks, but the fan interaction count only goes up to five, so he also loses it again. He drops Swoops off at his house, and Swoops disappears inside with a shout of “See you at practice!”

He almost trips over Kit when he walks into his apartment, but that happens at least twice a week and he’s given up on scolding her for it. Once he’s stuffed food in her puzzle feeder and grabbed a glass of juice, he pulls out his phone.

Tomas said they were friends. And friends are interested in what their friends do. He should check out Tomas’ blog.

The first hit when he googles “Tomas Nadeau blog” is the right one. There’s a banner at the top with Tomas’ picture next to the blog title, then headlines underneath it with little blurbs. _The Montreal blue line situation: Is it salvageable?_ is the top one, and Kent clicks it and skims through the article. Tomas doesn’t hide the fact that he’s rooting for the Habs, and his obvious frustration shines through when he discusses the season the Habs are having. Kent finds himself smiling when he reaches the end.

At the bottom, there’s a link that says _Previous entry: “What does the NHL’s decision regarding Michael Trevor say about their support for female players?”_ Kent clicks through and reads that one, too. After that there’s one about racism in peewee hockey. It’s pretty interesting, actually. He sips his juice as he clicks the next one.

The fourth one is about a line brawl at a Stars vs Aeros game last week, the fifth about some new equipment rules that the NHL is considering for next season. He skims through them and finds that the next link at the bottom is _Previous entry: “Thoughts on the second ‘Out in the Field’ study”_. Kent has no idea what that is, so he clicks through.

_An international team of researchers repeated their study on experiences of homophobia among LGB amateur and pro sports players. The percentage that experienced various forms of homophobia went down since they last did the study four years ago. It’s cause for celebration, but at the same time, the problem isn’t solved._

Kent’s juice tastes weird. Did it go off? He’s pretty sure he just opened the carton. He puts his glass down and swallows to get the odd taste out of his mouth. He skims through the article, but it’s hard to focus. If he gets food poisoning, he’s going to sue whoever sold him this juice.

When he reaches the end of the piece, he goes back to the blog’s front page and scrolls further down. There’s a “Recent headlines” list, then a “Most read articles” one. The one at the top of the most-read list is titled _THEY TRADED PK SUBBAN????_ and Kent snorts at the sudden use of all-caps. When he clicks through, he finds that almost the entirety of the blurb and a good portion of the article is incoherent screaming, which seems a little out of character.

At the bottom of the article, there’s a _Next entry: “More (slightly less angry) thoughts on the PK Subban trade”_ and a _Previous entry: “Should closeted players come out?”_

Kent feels a wave of nausea, and he digs his nails into the skin of his forearm to distract from it. He should go to bed. He should sleep and hope he feels better tomorrow.

He clicks on the previous entry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French in this chapter: "Étonnant" means extraordinary/remarkable (I've been told it's hard to translate).  
> "J’ai habité au Québec pendant trois ans" = I lived in Quebec for three years.
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Leave a comment, make my day!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up, Kent had Tomas over to watch bad TV, lost and won some bets with Swoops, and checked out Tomas' blog because that's what friends do. This week: Lots of hockey, more bad TV, and Tomas may or may not have a type. 
> 
> Eventually we'll reach a chapter where I don't have to put a warning for seriously homophobic shit, but it is not today. Take care of yourself. 
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French translations. English in the end notes :)

**Tomas [9:08 am]:** Nice goal last night

**Tomas [9:09 am]:** Same time tonight?

**Kent [9:13 am]:** thnx & yea that wrks

**Tomas [9:18 am]:** Cool, good luck at practice and I’ll see you after for press questions ;)

  
         -------------  


Giving Tomas a key card was maybe a weird thing to do, but at least it means that Kent doesn’t have to go get him from the garage this time. He’s scrolling through Instagram when the doorbell rings.

Kit knows that sound means Kent is about to stand up, so she stretches luxuriously and ambles off his lap. Kent drops a kiss between her ears and goes to let Tomas in.

He’s tired and sore. They lost last night’s game against the Sharks despite his goal and Kent took a couple of hard checks. Then practice this morning was brutal because they really need to step it up if they want to stay in their playoffs spot, and now to top it off his old knee injury is bothering him. That’s not unexpected—it usually starts acting up around this point in the season—but it’s never great. There’s only so much Deep Heat can do, after a point. It’ll be nice to stay in, have company and watch TV.

“Hey,” Tomas says when Kent opens the door.

“ _All_ _ô_ ,” Kent says with a little smirk, stepping back to let him in. “C’mon.”

He gets them both a beer as Tomas settles on the same side of the couch as he had last week.

“I was wondering what all the empty shelves were for,” Tomas says.

“Hmm?” Kent follows Tomas’ gaze as he points at the set of shelves on one of his walls. Kit is leaping gracefully from one to the other until she’s perched on the highest one, where she sits up and curls her tail around her body. “Oh, yeah, they’re Kit’s. She likes to climb and sit in high places and shit. Here.” He hands Tomas his beer and settles on the other side of the couch. His knee protests when he sits down, and he grimaces.

“Are you okay?” Tomas asks.

Kent rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, just tired,” he says. “Sorry. I’ll be good company, I promise.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tomas says. “It’s okay if you’re tired. Even if you’re bad company.”

He smiles at Kent, and Kent is entirely unprepared for the warmth that spreads through his whole body in response. “Uh, yeah,” he says, and he’s damn glad Tomas looks back at the screen after that, because—shit. Shit, what the hell is going on with him?

He’s—this is like when Jack would—

He shoves the thought away. That was just a teenage thing, and he hasn’t really talked to Jack in years, and he’s not— It’s not like that with Tomas. It can’t be, because he’s not… It’s not like that. It’s just been a while since he made a new friend. Which speaks to the sad state of his social life, but it doesn’t _mean_ anything.

He’s fine. It’s fine. They’re friends and it’s fine.

The recap of last week’s _Are You The One_ starts up, and Kent gets himself under control enough to say, “I hope what’s her name… Maria, I hope she has to go on a date with that one horrific guy.”

“They’re all horrific,” Tomas says.

Kent huffs out a laugh. “The one who said monogamy is for women.”

“Oh, _that_ horrific one. Yeah, I’d love to see that.” Tomas looks over and smiles at him again, and it’s still nice but not as weird as before, so Kent definitely has everything under control.

  
         -------------

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

Je veux que tout le monde sache que je déteste les avions

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

Yes I know I usually keep my twitter English, but some situations (like flying) require French to properly express my deep distaste.

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

Nous n’étions jamais destinés à être à 10km de hauteur

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

Time for an Eastern roadie! We’ll be out of town until next Sunday for a nine-day roadie. First up: @DetroitRedWings

 

\-------------

 

“Parson, Newton, Scott,” coach Severs barks. On the ice, Skids circles the Aces’ goal with the puck as the third line skates to the bench. Kent has barely got his breath back from his previous shift, but he hops over the boards with his linemates. The Red Wings are just finishing off their own line change as Skids passes to Swoops and heads to the bench himself. The noise from the crowd picks up a bit as Kent crosses the ice to get into position.

“Push it forward!” coach yells from the bench. Swoops passes across center to Scotty, but the Red Wings defense are in good form today and there’s no good place for Scotty to go. He passes it back to Kent, who takes it over the blue line, but the whistle goes off for an offside call. Any momentum they might’ve had is lost, as Kent whips the puck toward one of the refs and heads to the faceoff dot.

It’s been the story of the game so far. The Red Wings put up a goal in the first period, and the Aces haven’t made it onto the scoreboard yet, with all of their shifts fading away into turnovers or whistles. It’s frustrating and exhausting. He wipes at his face with his glove, then leans forward to stare down the Detroit player across from him at the dot.

He takes the faceoff and wins it, but again they don’t get far; Beck messes up a pass back to Diver and before they know it, Detroit’s right winger circles the goal and tries a wraparound. Kent’s legs burn as he pushes back toward the goal, sliding in front of the Red Wings’ center just as Sims makes a blocker save. The puck bounces to the winger again and he tries another shot on goal. Sims tries to get a glove on it, but the puck disappears somewhere between his legs; the winger makes a dive and Kent makes a dive and three other players make a dive and then it’s a mad scramble in front of the net until Sims finally does glove the puck and the whistle goes off.

Kent shoves one of the Red Wings aside as he catches his breath. He gets a dirty look in return, but he just smirks and heads back to the faceoff circle. Detroit wins it this time, but Kent intercepts a pass and sends the puck to Beck, who passes it down to Swoops.

Swoops takes it up the ice and over the blue line, then to Kent as he hangs back in case the Red Wings get possession. There’s an opening to Beck. Kent sees the possible play in a flash, catching the way the Red Wings are lining up to defend from the corners of his eyes.

He passes off to Beck, then sprints forward past the Detroit defense, to where he’s got a clear shot on goal if only Beck will—

He calls out to Beck, but Beck has already passed to Scotty instead. By the time Scotty sends the puck along the boards to Kent, both of the Red Wings D-men are on his case. He curses internally and passes back along the boards to Diver. He hurries to the bench, ignoring the way his muscles protest the long shift.

“Not gettin’ anywhere,” Beck says, grabbing his water bottle without looking so he can keep his eyes on the puck.

Kent nods, squirting a jet of water on his face. There’s sweat dripping from his hair down his neck. He leans forward, elbows on the board. “Yeah. Their D is leaving holes, you gotta watch where I’m going for the one-twos,” he says, between taking deep breaths to get some oxygen to his protesting muscles. He’s said it before and it never really seems to land. Beck is a good winger, but he’s still young and doesn’t see through the game well enough to know what Kent wants all the time, no matter what Kent says on the bench or on the ice. It’s frustrating because last year, when Scrappy was still on the team, his line was connecting much better. Fuck management for trading him—though he knows they didn’t have much of a choice if they wanted to stay under the cap.

“Yeah,” is all Beck says. On the ice, Kelly loses the puck, and Kent groans in frustration. Thankfully, Esko wins it back almost immediately. A glance at the clock tells him there’s just under nine minutes left in the second. Then the puck deflects out of play and there’s a break for commercials.

Kent drinks a bunch of water, squirts some over his sweaty neck

, and then goes back on the ice for the shift after the break. The Red Wings are making a line change too, with their second line and their first pairing on the ice.

“We gotta come in over the right,” Kent says to Beck as the ref beckons him into the circle. “I’m faster than Green, get the puck to back to me ASAP.”

He doesn’t wait for Beck’s response, just prays that the guy understands exactly what play Kent is envisioning. Seconds later, the puck drops, and Kent knocks it back to Jeff, who passes to Skids, and then the puck is back on Kent’s stick and he crosses over center ice diagonally, then over the blue line, then the pass to where Beck is all the way over at the boards. He can see the play evolving, and there’s really nothing he loves more than this. His body is protesting, he feels hot and tired, but there’s adrenaline pumping through his veins that’s keeping him alive. The exhilaration of seeing all the possibilities on the ice, of finding pucks and passing lanes and scoring chances, is worth all the pain and effort and exhaustion.

Kronwall is going after Beck, and Green is coming in to cover Kent, but Kent puts on an extra burst of speed and stays ahead. Then—thank god—Beck whips the puck past Scotty, who’s surrounded by two Red Wings, and to where Kent is going to be in just a split second. Kent doesn’t look at the puck or his stick or Green, who is half a step behind him. He doesn’t even look at the net, where the goalie is dropping. Instead he looks at Scotty, so the Red Wings around him come in to break up the pass instead of lining up for a block in front of the goal. Then he just whips his stick where he knows the puck will be and one-times it over the goalie’s shoulder and to the back of the net.

There’s no buzzer and no cheers, because they’re not in Vegas. But there’s Scotty’s “Yeah!”, and there’s Beck coming in to throw his arms around Kent’s shoulders, and there’s sliding along the bench to fist bump all his teammates. There’s also the disgruntled expression on Green’s face. Kent smirks at him and resists the urge to throw in a chirp about speed. He’ll say something when they’re taking another faceoff together, but right after a goal is taking it too far, even for him.

They’re still at 1-1 when the buzzer signals the end of the second period. Kent drinks more water and tells his teammates to get their shit together and deal with the Red Wings’ second line better. Then someone hands him an Aces snapback and he’s sent out into the hallway to talk to ESPN.

“That was a beautiful goal, how are you feeling about it?” the reporter says.

Kent grins at the camera, wipes his neck with the towel he’s got around his shoulders. “Yeah, felt pretty good when it went in,” he says. “It was a good pass from Beck, and everyone was in the place where they needed to be, so that’s a situation where I can get the puck in the net and obviously that’s great.”

“You’re 0 for 4 on the powerplay tonight. Why do you think your powerplay isn’t connecting?”

Kent blows out a breath. “I mean, I think our passes are maybe lacking tonight, and so pressing forward isn’t—it’s not going the way we want, but we’ve kept them 0 for 3 on their powerplay too, so I mean, in the third we just wanna keep up what we’re doing defensively and find a way to connect better in our forward section,” he says.

“All right, good luck,” the reporter says.

“Yeah, thanks,” Kent says, flashing another grin. Then he heads back into the locker room. He kind of hates intermission interviews. It’s always the same questions and the same answers, even moreso than usual. 

Coach gives a little speech on keeping up the pressure. Kent follows it up with a few words on getting through the neutral zone, and moments later he’s back on the ice for the faceoff. “I’ll just take that, thanks,” he tells Zetterberg, and he does win the faceoff, but they don’t get a shot on goal during that shift or the next one he has. It’s frustrating.

On his third shift, he’s battling it out against Green again. Beck had crossed over the blue line late, so Kent couldn’t put on speed or the play would be offside. Green is right at his back, and the puck is against the boards between his right skate and Green’s stick. Eventually it’s Green who gets the puck where he wants it. The ref is on Kent’s other side, so he might get away with—

The whistle blows, and Kent thinks _fuck_ but doesn’t say it.

“Number 90, minor penalty for hooking,” the official says over the speakers once Kent is in the penalty box. Kent blows out a breath as he settles on the bench.

The Aces have always put up high numbers for killing penalties, well into the 80s in every season Kent has played with them. Kent tells himself he’d be more careful with his penalty minutes if that weren’t true, but he isn’t so sure. Still, he shouldn’t be getting two penalties in one game, even if the first one was for slashing—and seriously, fuck the NHL anyway for clamping down on slashing so hard that every fucking move Kent makes is a penalty now. It’s been half a season and he’s still not fully used to it.

Skids and Esko kill off some big chances for the Red Wings, and it’s not that long before Kent is back on the ice. It’s during the 5-on-5, maybe fifteen seconds after the penalty ends, that Detroit gets a puck to Tatar. Kent can see the play go wrong even before it happens: Tatar moves to pass, and Kent can tell it’s fake, but Sims responds to it anyway and slides to the other side of the goal, so the puck meets no resistance when Tatar takes a stride to his left and buries it short-side.

  
         -------------

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

The Red Wings put one in the empty net to make it 3-1.

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 2d

Frustrating loss for the Aces. They were great offensively in the first period and had several powerplays, but couldn’t get much past Howard despite great chances, then failed to keep up the offense in period 2 & 3.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

“We just didn’t work as hard for it today as the other guys did.” -@BeckNewton95

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

Read @TomasNadeau’s game recap here: atnhl.com/87uepfo2i

 

**Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 4h

Ok that Red Wings game sucked, I want a win tonight please and thank you! Time for Aces vs Flyers, come on Aces!!

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 4h

Time to show the Flyers who’s boss!

  
         -------------  


“Fuck the Flyers, man,” Dave grumbles to Kent as the team files into the locker room after they got shut out by fucking Philadelphia.

“And the fucking refs,” Tower says from the other side of him, over the din of helmets clattering onto the benches.

“Dude, you shouldn’t have fucking cross-checked that guy,” Scotty snaps.

Tower veers back up from where he’s just sat down at his stall. “What the hell, man, whose side are you on?”

“Pack it in, girls, maybe let the coach get a word in,” Diver bellows, and the group falls silent.

Kent tunes out their coach’s speech on how they should really be better. It’s a short one, anyway—nobody’s really in the mood to listen to anything when they just got their asses kicked.

Their coach disappears and half a dozen reporters file in instead. Their goalie, Sims, gets called over to the side of the locker room where they form a semi-circle around a spot on the bench. The rest of the room is quiet, subdued. After a win, there’s music, but after losses the dressing room always feels a little bit like someone died.

“Damn, that sucked,” Swoops says, dropping down beside Kent.

Kent heaves a sigh, trying to shake the post-game heaviness from his limbs. “Yup.”

“Their first-line C is unbelievably fast.”

“Mm,” Kent says, pursing his lips. He tips his head back against the wall. He shouldn’t stay seated for long, not right after a game, but it’s hard to muster the will to get up again, especially when he knows he can’t go do a post-game workout or shower when the press is going to want him in a minute. “D’you think coach should’ve switched up the pairings? Put you with Skids instead? And then Diver and Esko against their first line?”

“Maybe,” Swoops says. “I don’t know, but God knows I’m not the best guy to put up against someone who relies on his speed that much.”

“Hey, man, you played fine,” Kent says.

“Tell that to the plus-minus I got this game.”

Kent sighs. “Yeah, same here. Broke my points streak, too.”

“How many games was this one?”

“Nine, I think.” He frowns, thinking. “Maybe ten?”

“Sounds like it was less than a dozen,” Swoops says, wagging his eyebrows. “You owe me three hundred.”

“Fuck you,” Kent huffs. “It can wait till tomorrow, man, do you have to add insult to injury?”

“Always. Hey, I’m gonna hit the showers.”

Kent sighs again. “Yeah, I’d do the same but I’m guessing they’re going to want me in a second.” He gestures at the cluster of reporters, who have just exchanged Sims for Scotty.

“Always so popular,” Swoops throws over his shoulder as he walks off.

Kent finally convinces himself to get up. He changes into a t-shirt, going over the game in his head and trying to find the shifts he could’ve played better, the stuff he needs to be working on. It’s not long before he hears his name from the other side of the locker room. He grabs his snapback and shoves it over his messy hair as he crosses the room. Scotty looks annoyed at whatever questions he’s just had to answer, but he still holds out his hand for a fist bump as Kent passes by to take his place in the semi-circle of press.

Tomas is there, giving him a commiserating look right as someone else says, “Why do you think the Flyers won today?”

_Yeah, rub it right in, thanks_ , he thinks to himself. “They’ve got some real talent at center,” he says. “And I think we didn’t manage to find the precision in our offense. Not enough passes connecting the way they should, and I think that’s what cost us scoring chances. And you know, we got two powerplays early in the game, that’s when we have to take those opportunities and get the puck in the net, and we didn’t manage to do that.”

“You exchanged some words with Steube near the end of the second period,” another reporter says. “What was that about?”

Kent rubs a hand over his face. The exhaustion of a game is setting in properly, as it usually does a couple of minutes afterwards. It’s always worse after a loss. His blood is still singing with adrenaline, but he’s also frustrated and disappointed, and his legs are protesting every move. “Yeah, he came in hard at Keller,” he says. “And the refs didn’t call it, so I guess it was clean, but you know, I just said something to him about it, and it got a little heated. That’s just part of the game sometimes.”

“You got two penalties yourself,” the reporter says. Kent is well aware that he’s racking up more penalty minutes than he should on this roadie. He rubs at his elbow, which is sore from banging against the boards at some point, and raises an eyebrow. After a few seconds of silence, the reporter adds, “Do you think that makes any difference in what you said to Steube?”

“Look, hockey’s physical, that’s part of the sport,” Kent says, trying to keep his voice light and probably failing. “And sometimes that crosses a line and the refs step in. But I don’t go out and find the youngest kid on someone else’s team to go after. And I’m not saying that’s what he was doing, because I don’t know that. But there’s rookies on every team and you know when you take it too far against a young kid, the rest of his team’s gonna step in if it’s necessary. So that’s just—that’s what I said to him.” Honestly, Steube is lucky that Swoops wasn’t on the ice when he put that hit on Keller, or there would’ve been blows, and everyone knows Swoops would’ve won that one.

He can tell the reporter wants to pursue it further, but he’s honestly done talking about this. With the adrenaline fading, he’s beginning to really feel the soreness in his muscles. It feels like his eyes are burning every time he blinks. He wants press to be over and he wants to go to bed and sleep for at least ten hours. Not that that’s going to happen any time soon, because they still have to drive to fucking New Jersey for their game against the Devils tomorrow. In lieu of a bed, the next best thing is to at least get a better question, so he looks away from the reporter who asked the last question and meets Tomas’ gaze instead.

“You’re currently tied with the Sharks for the last Western Conference wildcard,” Tomas says, so apparently the Sharks just won their game earlier tonight. Fantastic. He can’t quite hide his grimace at the thought. “What do you think about the Aces’ chances of making the playoffs?”

“The season isn’t over for a while,” Kent says. There’s a burst of laughter from the other side of the locker room, and he glances over to find Scotty, Kimmy and Tower looking at the group of reporters. Kimmy brushes his sweat-soaked red hair from his face. He elbows Scotty in the side and says something, and the other two snicker. Kent shakes his head and tries to refocus on the question. “Uh, so I think we’ve got some games coming up where we can do better than we did tonight and make sure we’re at a place where we do make it to the playoffs. That’s obviously the goal and I think we can do it.”

He glances at his teammates again, and Scotty meets his eyes, a wild grin on his face. He gestures at the reporters—no, he gestures at Tomas, Kent realizes. Then he holds his hands spread apart just in front of him, like he’s grabbing something—someone?—and thrusts his hips forward. Beside him, Tower wiggles his ass and Kimmy is making gagging motions. Scotty, emboldened, thrusts his hips forward again, exaggerated, lewd, and then bursts out laughing.

Kent twists his hands into the fabric of his shorts as a wave of nausea washes over him. God, he’s going to throw up, he’s in the middle of a fucking interview and he can’t deal with this. He needs to focus, needs to look away from his teammates, because if the cameras pan over from where they’re currently trained at Kent—

“Uh, sorry,” he says. “Can you repeat that question?”

The reporter who asked the next question repeats what she was saying, and Kent fumbles together some kind of answer. He vaguely registers that Swoops is standing in front of Scotty now, arguing with him in furious whispers.

There’s another question, and then the press files out of the locker room. Tomas is last in the bunch. He glances back, frowns at Kent, and seems to want to say something. Kent looks away as fast as he can, and Tomas turns away and heads out.

Swoops raises his voice as soon as the door shuts behind the reporters. “—why you would ever think that that was funny!” he snarls.

“Whatever, man, it was a joke,” Scotty says defensively.

“Yeah, dude, we just fucking lost a game, we’re just messing around,” Tower says. He grabs a towel and slings it over his shoulder, then turns back to Swoops.

Tower is one of only two or three guys in the locker room who are taller than Swoops, but Swoops isn’t the least bit intimidated. “I don’t care if it’s a joke, it’s disrespectful,” he snaps. “Are you fucking serious? You’re making fun of someone behind his back. He fucking works for us, man, have some goddamn respect, how the fuck do you think he’d feel if he saw that?”

“Whatever, I don’t fucking care,” Scotty says, sitting down heavily at his stall. He rummages through his duffel bag with quick, angry motions, then glances up at Kent. “Kent, dude, tell your boy he’s overreacting. It was just a joke, right?”

Kent’s still sitting on the bench where he was interviewed. He’s—fuck, he doesn’t want to think about this, he can’t, he feels fucking _awful._ Why did they ever make him captain, he can’t even fucking _deal_ with this.

Everyone’s looking at him now. Scotty, Kimmy and Tower look indignant, Swoops looks—kind of worried, maybe, like he doesn’t think Kent’s going to pass this test. Half the team is still in the locker room with them, silently looking on.

He swallows. “It’s—there were fucking reporters here, man,” he says finally. “You think that kind of shit goes over well in the press? Do you _want_ to get suspended?”

“What?” Scotty sputters. “No, I just—”

“Then don’t be a goddamn idiot. And leave me the fuck out of your bullshit when I’m doing a post-game,” he snaps.

“Whatever,” Scotty grumbles, but he doesn’t protest, just trudges off to the showers. Kimmy and Tower have already turned back to their stalls, long grown bored with the argument.  

Swoops turns away before Kent can tell from his expression whether he passed the test. Probably not.

He ignores the trembling in his hands and the churning nausea in his gut as he grabs a towel and follows Scotty to the showers. He likes to do a post-game workout, usually, but they just had a hard loss and he feels like shit and he doesn’t even know what any of his limbs are doing except that his knee is unreasonably sore.

When he’s back at his stall and has put on his clothes, he’s feeling marginally better. He grabs his bag to make his way out to the bus. It’ll be a while before everyone else gets there, since some of the others definitely are still somewhere in the Wells Fargo Center gym. But that just means he can find a quiet spot somewhere at the back of the bus and ruminate on their loss without anyone disturbing him.

He pulls his phone out as he’s making his way out of the stadium.

**Ashley [11:05 pm]:** Oh no shit man, I just saw the score! :(

**Ashley [11:06 pm]:** Devils tomorrow, right? I don’t have plans so I can probably watch it, maybe that’ll help!! Good vibes and all that!

**Tomas [11:31 pm]:** You all right?

He texts Ashley first, to tell her the time of tomorrow’s game and that she should definitely watch. There’s only a couple of people on the bus yet—half a dozen players, an assistant coach, the medical staff. Kent finds a seat away from all of them and then pulls out his phone again. He spends a couple of minutes just staring at Tomas’ text.

**Kent [11:57 pm]:** fine

  
         -------------

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3d

We’re visiting New Jersey today. Hell is empty and all the Devils are here…

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3d

Puck drop in one hour. The Devils won’t know what hit them!

|

**New Jersey Devils** @NJDevils · 3d

That’s what you said about the Flyers.

 

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 3d

Come on Aces, save my weekend!

 

**Zach** @RealMrZachary · 3d

Damn that is a goal for the highlight reels from @swoopthereitis

|

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 3d

beautiful & that one by Scott in the first period was a beauty too

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3d

Hey @NJDevils, next time you chirp us, better back it up with some hockey, too.

|

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 3d

OH SNAP

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

We’re halfway through our roadie. We’ll be hanging out in New York for a couple of days, then we’re paying the Habs a visit up north!

**New York Rangers** @NYRangers · 14h

Overtime goal from Newton… We fought hard but they came out on top #AcesVsRangers

  
         -------------  


**Kent [7:42 am]:** islanders tmrw

**Kent [7:43 am]:** so we cant watch are u the one

**Tomas [8:56 am]:** Yeah, I’ll catch a rerun at some point so I’m not missing out on the Drama

**Kent [8:58 am]:** wanna come to my room n watch ex on the beach tnite instead?

**Tomas [9:03 am]:** Congratulations, you found an even worse show than Are You The One

**Tomas [9:03 am]:** I’m in.

  
         -------------

 

Tomas’s blog post is almost done when he realizes he’s about to be late for _Ex on the Beach_. He hasn’t watched that show in forever—it’s the worst kind of trash TV, worse even than what he usually goes for. He can’t wait to hear which of these awful, awful people Kent is going to be rooting for.

He takes the elevator up a couple of floors to where Kent and the other players have their rooms. It’s quiet up here. Swoops tweeted earlier about how he and a couple of the others were going out for dinner and drinks. Apparently, Kent prefers to stay in and watch TV with Tomas. It’s a nice thought.

He knocks on Kent’s door, and it’s only a couple of seconds before Kent pulls it open. He’s in sweatpants and a faded Aces t-shirt. He doesn’t look quite as tired as he did last week, but it’s close. Tomas knows the season is long and exhausting, and the Aces tend to have a pretty harsh schedule in the last six weeks.

“Hey,” Kent says. He pokes his head out and looks both ways down the hallway. He relaxes noticeably when he sees there’s no one else around. Tomas frowns. Does Kent not want his teammates to know they’re hanging out?

Tomas isn’t blind. He’s noticed the glares he gets in the locker room. He knows there’s at least a couple of players who don’t want him there; he’s caught a couple of whispers and he knows it’s because he’s gay. It’s fucked up, and it’s very different from how it was with the Wild, where at least to his face everyone was supportive.

He didn’t think Kent was like that. Except Kent continues to give off weird mixed messages, and it’s more noticeable whenever Tomas alludes to his sexuality in any way, or when he gets too close to Kent.

Tomas puts the thoughts out of his mind and steps inside. Kent locks the door behind him. Tomas knows players will just barge into each other’s rooms, so if Kent is worried about being seen with him, it’s not an unnecessary luxury. It still makes Tomas frown. He tries to ignore that too.

Kent’s apartment has been incredibly tidy both times Tomas was there, but his hotel room is a mess. His suitcase is on the floor beside the bed and appears to have exploded.

“ _J’suis désolé du ménage_ ,” Kent says, grinning lopsidedly at Tomas. Tomas likes how Kent is the one to switch to French this time. Kent isn’t the only one for whom French feels like home. “ _I was looking for my charger just now. I couldn’t find it and I got a little annoyed_.”

Tomas laughs. “ _Did you find it in the end_?”

“ _Yeah, it got caught between some shirts or something_ ,” Kent says. He kneels down and stuffs his clothes haphazardly back into the suitcase. “ _Y’é quelle heure_?”

Tomas pulls out his phone to check. “ _8:33_ ,” he says.

“Oh shit, we’re missing it,” Kent says. “I’m not caught up so we need the recap.”

“Because after a recap, this show will make total sense.”

Kent laughs. He straightens up and grabs the remote, gesturing at the bed. “Go sit, let me grab some drinks,” he says as he turns on the TV and finds the right channel, then wanders to the mini fridge in a corner of the room.

Tomas kicks off his shoes and goes to sit against the headboard. At Kent’s place, Kent had kept as much distance between them on the couch as he could. Tomas keeps to one side, now, but when Kent comes back with drinks, he still has to sit considerably closer to Tomas than at his place.

He doesn’t seem troubled by that, though, so Tomas goes back to doubting his own perceptions about Kent’s responses earlier. So… maybe Tomas was overacting? Maybe he’s imagining things. Maybe it’s fine. Tomas has to resist the urge bang his head against the headboard. Ugh, this is the opposite of fun. He doesn’t want to feel paranoid or believe the worst in his friends. He’s not even sure why he puts himself through this at all, instead of giving Kent a miss and finding friends who he can be sure aren’t secretly acutely uncomfortable with Tomas being gay.

They’ve missed all of the recap and land right in a scene where two guys are yelling because one of them kissed the other’s sort-of ex.

“I don’t even know where to start with the judgments,” Tomas says.

Kent snorts. “I saw one earlier episode and I don’t like him,” he says, gesturing at the dark-haired guy on the left. “So I’m on that other guy’s side. I have no idea who he is though.”

Tomas laughs. The voice-over says something about the upcoming arrival of another ex. “How was practice today?” Tomas says, because he doesn’t care as much about this show as he does about _Are You The One_.

“Yeah, fine,” Kent says. “I mean, you saw most of it, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m just tweeting out the lines and trying to think of questions to ask,” Tomas says.

“Well, it was okay. Mostly powerplay work. We obviously want to get our percentage up a bit.”

It’s never hard to talk about hockey, so they discuss the Aces’ playoffs bid as the show plays in the background. It goes to commercial after a while, and when it comes back, they pay more attention. It seems that _Ex on the Beach_ is too terrible for even Kent to really root for any of the participants. He starts off claiming that they can’t all be bad people, but a couple of minutes later he starts mimicking people’s shitty ‘love confessions’ in a mocking voice, and Tomas finds himself laughing so much his sides hurt.

He’s pretty sure he knows why he puts up with Kent’s hot-and-cold attitude, but he doesn’t want to think about it.

There’s another commercial break, and Kent asks, “So what did you do with the rest of your day? Did you check out New York?”

“Nah, I was writing,” Tomas says. “Some stuff for work, obviously, and I was working on a blog post for Friday. I run a hockey blog on the side, I have since I was in college,” he adds, because most fellow journalists have at least heard of it, but most players have not.

“Uh, yeah, Swoops said,” Kent says. “Social issues in sports, right?”

“That, and Habs talk,” Tomas says, because his blog is _meant_ to be primarily about social issues, but a solid 50% of the posts are just him yelling about his favorite team.

Kent chuckles. “How long, uh, how long does it take you to write a blog post?” he asks. He fiddles with a loose thread on his sweatpants.

“Depends,” Tomas says. “If I’m ranting about the Habs, not that long. It helps that I know everything about every player, so I don’t have to look anything up.”

“Is that right? When was Max Pacioretty drafted?” Kent asks. He gets up and gets them both new drinks from the fridge.

Tomas huffs out a laugh. “2007. 21st or 22nd overall, I think.”

“I have no idea if that’s right,” Kent says, smirking in Tomas’ direction for a second before he turns away again and rummages around for the bottle opener. “Or if maybe you were writing about him today and actually did look that up just now.”

“No, I was writing about that new set of videos You Can Play put out,” Tomas says.

He’s watching Kent, so he doesn’t miss the way Kent goes still, just for a moment, before he turns around and holds one of the bottles out for Tomas. “Cool,” Kent says. He’s grinning, but when he sits back down, he’s definitely further away than before, so close to the edge of the bed that it can’t possibly be comfortable. And he doesn’t ask anything else about Tomas’ blogging process or what he was writing today.

The show starts up again, and within a few minutes, Kent is back to making fun of the contestants, hamming up his impressions. Tomas starts dryly picking apart someone’s nonsensical reasoning about why their hook-up wasn’t cheating. Kent chuckles, at first, and when Tomas keeps going, he starts honest-to-god _giggling_. Once he starts, he can’t stop, and it sets Tomas off in turn, until they’re both almost howling with laughter. Tomas is still wiping tears from his eyes when _Ex on the Beach_ ends. He doesn’t quite have his breathing back yet, but the slight wooziness just adds to how great it feels to laugh so much. When he glances over at Kent again, Kent looks relaxed and happy and open, and Tomas has to bite his lip and look away.

They watch the _next time on_ segment, then keep making predictions about the next episode while the channel switches to some other show. It’s forty minutes later before Kent catches sight of the clock.

“Game tomorrow, early night?” Tomas guesses from his expression.

“Yeah, I should sleep,” Kent says regretfully. “I mean, you can stick around a little longer, I guess—it’s not like I would’ve been back by ten if I’d gone out with the guys,” he considers.

“No, it’s okay, I should finish my blog post, anyway,” Tomas says.

“Oh. Right,” Kent says, giving him blinding smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s his media-calibrated layer firmly back in place, and Tomas didn’t even mention _You Can Play_ again, just the blog itself.

Kent leads him to the door, unlocks and opens it, and Tomas can’t help but notice how he glances in either direction again before he steps back to let Tomas through.

“Back to _Are You The One_ next week?” Tomas asks.

“Yeah, I’ll text you,” Kent says quickly.

It’s pretty clear that he doesn’t want Tomas to linger, so Tomas nods, says, “Cool,” and heads down the hallway. Kent’s door clicks shut before he’s taken two steps.

 

\-------

 

Émilie isn’t home when Tomas gets to her apartment the day before the Aces’ Montreal game. He finds her spare key and lets himself in.

When he hears her key in the lock an hour later, he calls out, _“C’est juste moi,”_ before he gives her a heart attack. They used to show up at each other’s apartments all the time, but it’s been a couple of years since they last lived in the same city.

“ _Oh my god, you’re here,_ ” she says excitedly as she steps into the living room. She tosses her coat over a chair and reaches back to free her wild auburn curls from where they’d been semi-neatly tied back. “ _I didn’t think you’d get here ‘till tomorrow!”_

“ _I figured I should do a throwback to our college days and just show up early_ ,” he says, grinning at her.

“ _It’s so good to see you!”_ She steps forward and throws her arms around him. She’s a good few inches shorter than he is, so he tucks her head under his chin for a moment and hugs her tightly.

“ _I know_.” He grins at her as he steps back. “ _God, it’s been forever. Calling isn’t the same. How are you?_ ” She looks good, her light brown skin glowing even though she just came in from the cold.

“ _Yeah, good, good. Come on, I was going to make enchiladas and I’ve got enough for two. How’s the roadie?_ ”

“ _Long._ ” He sighs as he follows her to the kitchen. “ _And the Aces are really hovering on the edge of that playoffs spot, which isn’t making anyone feel better. But tomorrow’s the last game, and we’re flying back the day after. Plus, at least we stopped by Montreal and I got a chance to see you._ ”

It’s always easy to talk to Émilie. They discuss his latest blog post, then her new producer who is a pain to work with. Émilie tells him about a guy she went on a date with last week who was incredibly hot but couldn’t hold two minutes of interesting conversation.

“ _Reminds me of_ Ex on the Beach _,”_ Tomas says.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “ _Since when do you watch that trash?”_

“ _Oh, I don’t really, I just saw an episode a couple days ago with Kent_.”

Émilie stares at him. “ _You watched_ Ex on the Beach _with Kent,”_ she says. “ _How did that happen?”_

He’s not really sure why he hasn’t mentioned that he’s been hanging out with Kent. Maybe he expects her to disapprove, though he can’t say why. “ _I told you he took me sightseeing a couple of weeks ago,_ ” he says, a little defensively.

“ _Yeah, but I thought that was just a one-off,”_ she says. “ _You haven’t mentioned him since.”_

“ _Well, he invited me over the week after, and it was fun, so we did it again._ ”

She’s looking at him with narrowed eyes. “ _Okay, and you watch bad TV?”_ she asks.

He shrugs. “ _Basically, yeah_.”

“ _Isn’t that unprofessional? Since you’re reporting on his team?”_

He hadn’t really considered that, though maybe he should have. “ _I don’t know,_ ” he says. _“I work for the Aces. Technically we’re colleagues, right?”_

She looks skeptical. “ _All right,”_ she says. _“Well, at least you’re making friends in Vegas, then. But he seems like an odd choice.”_

_“Why?”_ he asks, frowning.

“ _I don’t know, he doesn’t seem… I don’t like him much. I know everyone fawns over him in the media, but he just seems fake to me.”_

“ _He’s not like that, away from the cameras,”_ Tomas says, suddenly defensive of Kent. “ _He’s—I don’t know. When we’re hanging out, he’s just a guy, not a famous athlete. He’s just—He’s funny. He loves his cat. He has bad opinions about TV shows.”_ He finds himself smiling a little. Émilie fixes him with a long stare, until he says, “ _What?”_

_“Are you crushing on him?”_ she asks.

Tomas isn’t sure what his face does. “ _What? No_ ,” he says, which might be a lie. Honestly, he’s been trying not to think about this, because it’s a terrible, terrible idea.

“ _You totally are!”_ Émilie is gleeful now. “ _God, you’re predictable.”_

He glares at her mutinously. “ _What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_“This is a_ thing _with you_ ,” she says. “ _We can’t trust you around the players.”_

“ _What do you mean, it’s not—”_

_“You had that crush on PK Subban,”_ she starts.

“ _Everyone in the world has a crush on PK, that doesn’t prove—”_

_“Well, what about Johnny Oduya? Or Ryan Kesler, or Michael Del Zotto?”_

_“Okay, look,”_ he begins, but she doesn’t let him finish.

_“Or that time you were raving about how unfair it is that Nazem Kadri has such pretty eyes even though he’s a total shit.”_

Tomas rolls his eyes. _“That’s different, it’s not like I actually_ know _any of them!”_

_“And then there was that thing in St Paul with—”_

He cuts her off. _“Okay!”_ He sighs and runs a hand through his hair _. “Okay,_ fine _, there might be a pattern.”_

_“NHL players are your type,”_ she teases. “ _I’m not surprised Parson made you fall in love after one look into his gorgeous blue—Actually, what color are his eyes?”_

_“I don’t know,”_ he lies. “ _And I’m not in love with him. Can we please talk about something else?”_

_“Something other than your crush on yet another player?”_ she says teasingly. “ _At least you’ve moved on from unattainable ones to ones that are on the team you work for.”_

_“Still pretty unattainable,”_ Tomas says. He thinks of Kent, grinning exaggeratedly as he moves to sit further from Tomas. When he takes another bite of his food, it’s gone cold.

Émilie sobers, reaching out to touch his shoulder briefly. “ _Hey, I’m just teasing. Be careful, all right? Don’t let him break your heart.”_

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

No one scores in overtime, so we’re going to the shootout!

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 1d

Carey Price stops all three Aces attempts but Drouin put one in the Aces’ net. Habs win the shootout, final game score 3-2.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

The guys are getting back on the plane to Vegas! We went 3-2-1 on this roadie. We’ve got two more short roadies before the end of the season, but first, some home games!

  
         -------------  


Tomas knows himself, and now that he’s admitted to himself that he’s fast developing a crush on Kent, he knows what he should do. This crush is going to get worse, and it’s not like it’s ever going to lead anywhere, judging by how Kent responds to the slightest mention of Tomas being gay. Tomas should cut his losses, stop going over to Kent’s place and just go back to being sort-of colleagues with him.

He’s tempted to just kind of ghost Kent. Make other plans on Thursdays, say he’s too busy. But he suspects Kent would just offer to have him over some other time. And it doesn’t seem fair on Kent to disappear without telling him, since Kent seems pretty invested in being friends. Enough that he was willing to ignore his apparent discomfort at Tomas’ sexuality, which is fucked up, but also kind of sweet.

The point is, he’s going to have to friend-break-up with Kent. And he should do it today, because tomorrow is a game day and the day after that is already Thursday, when they’d planned to watch the season finale of _Are You The One_.

There was no practice this morning, since they didn’t get back from Montreal until 4 am. Tomas had slept in, but he had a meeting in the afternoon with Catrina to talk about PR strategies for the last stretch of the season.

Now he’s making his way over from the office building to the practice facility. Maybe he should call instead, but he’d rather do this in person, so he might as well see if Kent is on the ice somewhere. Even when there’s no official practice, he’s often training individually, or helping out rookies, or just hanging around with teammates.

The Aces ice pad is empty, though. When he passes by the gym, he sees only Biryukov and Jeff working with trainers. Jeff waves at him between squats. Biryukov doesn’t see him, which is probably for the best. Tomas is pretty sure the team talks about him behind his back, but Biryukov is one of the few who’s actually confronted Tomas, stepping up to him during Tomas’ first week and getting right into his face as he told him to stay the fuck away.

He probably should’ve taken it up with HR, but he’s honestly not sure they’d be all that supportive. He could have taken to Twitter and gotten Biryukov publicly flogged, but it’s not like he can prove anything, and if he maligns an Aces player, especially one as good as Birds, he’s going to get fired in three seconds flat.

God, he misses Minnesota sometimes. The Wild have fallen out of their playoffs position, which sucks, but at least he could’ve commiserated with the team instead of feeling like they collectively despise him.

He’s given up on finding Kent and resolved to call him later, when he hears shouts and the clang of pucks against the boards from one of the other ice pads. He sticks his head around the door of the rink, and sure enough there’s Kent, on the ice with a dozen girls.

“Mara, don’t forget your stance,” he calls out, and one of the girls pauses and turns from the teammate she was passing back and forth with. Kent bends his knees, then moves his stick along the ice, shifting his upper body side to side to demonstrate his increased reach. “Like this, remember?”

The girl nods and turns back, fumbling the next pass as she’s adjusting but then getting back into it.

Kent skates up to another pair who are passing back and forth and talks to one of the girls for a moment, too low for Tomas to hear. He moves his hands along his stick as he explains, then gestures for her to copy his movements.

Tomas isn’t really sure how long Kent is going to be coaching, and he probably shouldn’t stick around to watch. He should just come back later. Instead he takes a couple steps forward so he can see the ice better.

“All right, everybody, get your pucks and take them off the ice, then gather round at center!” Kent calls. There’s a minute or so of collecting the pucks, and then the girls find their way to the middle of the rink. Kent nods at them, and then says, “We’re going to do a couple more minutes of play before the end of today’s practice! Ellie, you’re in goal for red team today.” One of the two girls in goalie pads nods and skates toward the goal Kent gestures at, and the other one heads toward the second goal. “Who wants to try doing the first faceoff today?”

Half a dozen hands shoot up, but nobody protests when Kent picks two of them and sends the rest of them out across the ice. A moment later, Kent drops the puck and skates backwards as he watches the girls play, shouting out instructions every now and then.

The practice is called to an end not long after, and the girls barrel past Tomas to the locker room. Kent takes off his helmet as he skates off with them. He spots Tomas as he steps off the ice.

“Oh, hey,” he says. He grins at Tomas, looking far too beautiful for someone who just skated for an hour and who wasn’t in bed until 5 this morning.

“Hey,” Tomas says.

Kent frowns. “Did I have a PR thing I forgot about?”

“No,” Tomas says, chuckling a little. “Not that I know of.” He sobers up quickly enough, because this is the hard part. “Uh, so, about Thursday—”

“Kent?”

They turn to find one of the girls standing beside them, helmet still on, rubbing her gloved hands together anxiously.

“Yeah, what’s up?” Kent says.

The girl glances uncertainly at Tomas. “Um.”

Kent follows her gaze. “Sorry, man, gotta talk to this lady for a minute,” he says. “That okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Tomas says, taking a step back.

“Come on, Em,” Kent says. He slides onto the players’ bench and pats the space next to him.

Tomas goes a little further back until he can lean against the wall. He pulls out his phone to go through Twitter as he waits. Kent is talking earnestly with the girl, their heads bowed together. Finally, after a couple of minutes, she nods and gets up, looking relieved.

“Come get me if they give you trouble,” Kent tells her as she walks past Tomas toward the locker room. Kent turns to him. “Sorry,” he tells Tomas. “Some of the girls were being mean to her before practice, apparently.” He grimaces. “Not, like, big stuff or anything, but she’s twelve, you know? Everything’s big when you’re twelve. Anyway, she was okay to get back in there, so hopefully the other girls will do better.” He still looks a little worried about how one of his kids is going to fare in the locker room politics of little girls, though, and Tomas is just _so gone_ for this man. “What was it about Thursday?”

Tomas sighs. “Nothing. Just. Same time?” he says, and hates himself a little.

“Uh, yeah?” Kent says, looking puzzled now because there’s clearly no earthly reason for Tomas to have come all the way to the rink to ask him that. “Unless you wanted to come for dinner before?” he adds, perking up as he makes the suggestion. “Nothing with eggplant or peppers. Or spices. Or—other vegetables,” he says. “Does that mean all vegetables, actually? Because I have a meal plan that includes a lot of them. I was going to have carrots and steak. How do you feel about carrots?”

“Uh, carrots are fine,” Tomas says.

“Cool. Six-thirty? Seven?”

This conversation is not going as he planned. “Seven works.”

“Cool,” Kent says again. “I’m gonna get a call from my agent in like ten minutes so I should get changed. See you… tomorrow, probably, after morning skate?”

“See you then,” Tomas says, and then Kent disappears towards the Aces’ locker room.

Tomas sighs and pulls out his phone. There’s a new text from Émilie beneath the ones he’d sent earlier today.

**Tomas [1:15 pm]:** So you were sort of right about Kent

**Tomas [1:16 pm]:** Going to find him today and talk about not hanging out anymore

**Émilie [3:46 pm]:** How did it go?

**Tomas [4:10 pm]:** …I’m now also having dinner with him.

  
         -------------  


**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 2h

lol cant believe tammy & ed were a match but ok they got the money so alls well that ends well #areyoutheone #seasonfinale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's French:  
> "Je veux que tout le monde sache que je déteste les avions" = I want everyone to know I hate airplanes.  
> "Nous n’étions jamais destinés à être à 10km de hauteur" = We were never meant to be 10km above the ground.  
> "J’suis désolé du ménage,” = sorry about the mess  
> “Y’é quelle heure?” = what time is it.
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Comment to make me love you forever.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up, Tomas tried to have less Kent in his life, but then Kent was cute with some kids and Tomas got more Kent in his life instead. Also a lot of slow burn. This week: More slow burn. And some hockey.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: On top of the on-going warning for homophobia throughout this story, this chapter contains descriptions of _homophobic and racist_ online harassment, including slurs. This chapter also contains sexual situations in which participants are drunk. (There is no coercion.) Be safe. If you need more information before reading, please don't hesitate to get in touch.
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French translations. English in the end notes :)

**Tomas [3:15 pm]:** Hey, I have a deadline tomorrow morning that I’m not gonna make unless I stay in tonight

**Kent [3:16 pm]:** :(

**Kent [3:16 pm]:** fine ill watch the bachelorette w/o u but just fyi i feel betrayed

**Tomas [3:17 pm]:** Aww pauvre Kent, c'est tellement terrible ce qu'il t'arrives

**Tomas [3:17 pm]:** J'espère que tu vas survivre à tout ça

**Tomas [3:21 pm]:** If you want you can come watch it at my place. So long as you don’t mind that I’m working while we watch

**Kent [3:22 pm]:** yeah snds gd whats ur address?

**Tomas [3:23 pm]:** You know vowels aren’t illegal, right?

  
         -------------  


The front door of Tomas’ building is probably supposed to be locked, but someone wedged a brick between it and the doorjamb, so Kent has no trouble pushing it open. He finds his way up two sets of stairs to apartment 17C.

“Hey,” Tomas says when he opens the door. “Come on in.”

Kent pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and follows him down the hallway to the living room. There’s light laminate flooring, a dark blue sofa, a framed band poster on the wall—Kent thinks it might be a local band from Quebec, vaguely familiar from when he was in the Q. The view from the window is a quiet suburban street, the polar opposite of Kent’s view over the Strip. He likes it.

“Here,” Tomas says, handing him a beer with one hand and the remote with the other. “You can find the channel, I’m just gonna grab my laptop.”

“Cool,” Kent says, settling on one side of the couch. He finds _The Bachelorette’_ s channel, but the show hasn’t started yet, so he grabs his phone instead and scrolls through Instagram until Tomas comes back.

“ _Désolé pour ça_ ,” Tomas says, sitting down on the other side of the couch with his MacBook. He’s been switching to French more, just whenever the urge apparently strikes him, as they’ve met up at Kent’s place almost every week and gone through half a season of _The Bachelorette_. Kent kind of likes it. He’s had a couple of Quebecois teammates over the years, but not this season, and it’s nice to flex his French every now and then. Besides, Tomas’ voice sounds different in French—softer, maybe. Smoother.

“ _Ce n’est pas un problème_ ,” Kent says. “What are you writing?”

“A piece on how the D-section is looking, going into the playoffs,” Tomas says. “Catrina asked me to write it this afternoon and she wants it by tomorrow. Apparently, she forgot to ask me earlier.” He pulls a face. “And I’m supposed to be writing a blog post right now, but I guess I’ll have to save that for Saturday morning. My Twitter mentions will be fun.”

“Your followers give you shit for being late?” Kent asks.

“Yeah, some of them,” Tomas says. “Most people don’t mind, obviously, but there’s always a couple of assholes. It’s fine, they’ll just have to deal. I don’t go into my mentions much, anyway. It’s not a good idea when you’re Black and gay and have opinions.”

Kent feels his stomach clench in sympathy. “Yeah. Does it get bad?”

Tomas shrugs. “Sometimes. Depends on what I blogged about most recently and how much traffic it picks up.” He pulls out his phone, scrolls around for a moment. “Yeah, not too bad right now, I haven’t posted anything super controversial in a couple of weeks.”

Kent leans over, and Tomas hands him his phone, fingers brushing against Kent’s for a moment.

At the top of Tomas’ mentions, there’s a couple of tweets from regular readers agreeing with a recent post Tomas wrote about the Habs. Kent is just beginning to think that Tomas was right and it isn’t so bad, when he comes across a tweet that reads “lol nobody wants your opinion you fucking faggot” and then “shut up you black cunt we fucking beat your asses”, then another couple of tweets to the tune of “thanks, good article!”, then “go back to Africa” and “choke on a dick faggot”, then another few nice ones and then a series of worsening racial slurs, then a bunch of insults in French.

“Holy mother of fuck,” Kent says.

Tomas glances over, catches sight of the tweets on the screen. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “You get used to it.”

“Right,” Kent says. He hands the phone back. His mouth feels dry. “Uh, are you—”

The intro to _The Bachelorette_ begins playing, which is good because Kent has no idea what he was going to say. Tomas seems completely unaffected by the vitriol in his feed; Kent feels sick just looking at just a handful of these tweets.

The recap of last week’s episode shifts into the theme music. Kent surreptitiously takes a deep breath and tries to put the tweets out of his mind.

Once the episode begins properly, Tomas alternates between typing and glancing at the screen. They’re quieter than they usually are—Kent would normally keep up a running commentary, spurred on by Tomas’ occasional dry comments. It’s still nicer to be here, watching it together, than if Kent had stayed home and seen it by himself.

“She’s definitely going to eliminate Byron,” Tomas says as the show goes to commercial for the second time halfway through.

“No way,” Kent says.

“He’s there for the wrong reasons,” Tomas says, his voice taking on a slight lilt to imitate that of the bachelorette’s.

“Oh yeah, I mean I don’t think he’s right for her either, but I don’t think she’s seen it yet. Not enough. She’s going to give him another chance,” Kent says.

“She shouldn’t,” Tomas says. “I mean, come on, indoor sunglasses?”

Kent raises an eyebrow and reaches up to tap against the sunglasses that are still pushed into his hair.

Tomas chuckles. “I bet she would never have given you a rose in the first place,” he says.

“Hey,” Kent protests. “I’ll have you know I am _charming._ ”

“Also, it’s slightly less bad when you’re not really wearing them,” Tomas adds.

“And when they’re not from the dollar store,” Kent says, maybe a little unkindly, because the _Bachelorette_ candidate probably can’t afford the sunglasses Kent is wearing.

Tomas’ eyes flick back to the sunglasses perched on Kent’s head. “They are very nice,” he says. He makes a little motion, as if to reach out, and Kent finds himself taking the glasses off and handing them to Tomas, who turns them over in his hands to inspect them.

“Dolce & Gabbana,” Kent says absently. “I bet they’d look good on you.”

Tomas takes off his own glasses and puts on the sunglasses, and yeah, they do look good on him. Really good.  

Kent feels something twist uncomfortably in his stomach. He takes a sip of his drink. “Cool,” he says. “How bad is your eyesight right now?”

Tomas grimaces. “Pretty bad. But I have contacts, too; it’s not like I can never wear sunglasses.”

“Oh. Then you should keep them,” Kent says, because they really do look good, and he has five pairs he can barely tell apart from this one, anyway.

Tomas takes the sunglasses off and puts his own glasses back on to stare at him. “I should keep your, what, 600-dollar sunglasses?”

“I don’t know how much they were,” Kent says, though he’s pretty sure it’s more than that. “I got them for free. I have an endorsement deal with them.”

“Then aren’t you supposed to wear them and promote the brand?” Tomas says. There’s something odd in his voice, but Kent isn’t sure what.

“I have like a dozen other pairs,” Kent says. “They suit you. Keep ‘em.”

The commercial break ends so Kent focuses on the screen again, but when he glances back at Tomas, Tomas is looking at him doubtfully, the sunglasses held carefully between his fingers. “Are you sure?” Tomas says.

Kent isn’t sure what Tomas is expecting—that Kent is going to regret giving something away that he could buy again without feeling the difference? He knows Tomas knows exactly how much he makes every year. Maybe it’s a weird thing to do, just giving those sunglasses away, but Tomas is already holding them like they’re precious, and it’s not really a big deal.

“Yeah, man, totally,” Kent says.

Tomas’ hesitant expression shifts into a pleased little smile. Kent takes another sip of his drink. “Okay,” Tomas says, and carefully puts the glasses down on the coffee table. He glances at them again, then at Kent, who hastily looks back at the TV, and then he turns his attention back to his article. “Thanks.”

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 7h

It’s game day in Vegas! If we win tonight, we secure a playoffs spot for the fifth consecutive year.

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 7h

With four more games in the season, tonight is the first opportunity the Aces have to clinch a spot in their game against the Ducks. Their last three games are away games, so this is the only chance to do it at home. Ducks are still on the bubble.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 7h

“Obviously we know what tonight might mean, but we prepare like any other game. We’re here to win, but we always are.” -@kvparson90

  
         -------------  


The rink is loud as Kent skates to the bench. Two minutes left on the clock, and the Aces are defending a 1-0 lead over the Ducks. They’ve been defending it for more than two periods now—Kent scored the goal halfway through the first, and neither team has put up any more points after that. It’s been a brutal game. Esko, Diver and two Ducks have all been in the box for fighting, and Kent isn’t the only one who added two minutes to his record today.

The Ducks pull their goalie right after Carly loses the faceoff. Kent forces himself to stay still, even though he wants to stand up and lean forward and _do_ something.

Sims makes a blocker save on a snapshot from a Ducks’ forward, and the puck ricochets back to their winger, but Sims gets the rebound in his glove and play is stopped. The Ducks put their goalie back out, only to have him return to the bench when the Ducks win the faceoff again.

The Ducks pass the puck quickly back to the blueline, then forward again, despite the Aces defenders’ attempts to get a stick in the way. Someone takes a shot, but it goes just wide, and then it lands right on the stick of Carly.

“Yes,” Beck hisses beside Kent. “Get it to Kimmy, come on!”

Carly spins around to avoid a Duck’s stick and sweeps the puck toward Kimmy. Kimmy dives around a D-man, makes a little half-turn to dodge away from the Ducks center who is rushing back, pulls his stick back and sends the puck in a beautiful, straight line to the Ducks’ open net.

The buzzer is barely audible over the roar of the fans. Kent is on his feet—the entire bench is on their feet. He thinks he’s yelling. Kimmy skates by, his gloved fist smashing against Kent’s.

“Fuck yeah!” Beck yells in Kent’s ear, so loud it hurts. Kent doesn’t mind. He’s going to the 2018 playoffs.

  
         -------------  


“Hey!” Beck yells, face flushed as he pushes his shoulder into Kent’s. It’s loud and crowded in the club; Kent can barely hear even Beck’s greeting. He can feel the beat of the music vibrate through his entire body, through the wall against his back. He’s lost sight of a bunch of his teammates while he was dancing. It’s fine; they’ll probably run into each other again eventually, or else they won’t.

Beck is yelling at him again, but Kent can’t understand a word. His face must show it, because Beck mimes knocking back a glass, and looks at Kent questioningly. With that context, Kent can read the “want another drink?” off his lips when he says it again.

“Yeah!” he shouts back.

Beck drags Dave away, leaving Kent with just Esko beside him. Esko elbows him in the ribs and yells something. He’s gesturing over to the dance floor, and Kent looks over. Birds is in the crowd, dancing with a young woman under the frantic, flashing lights. Through the throng of people, Kent can just make out that she’s wearing a crop top and has long glossy hair. When he looks back at Esko, Esko has his lips pursed like he’s wolf-whistling.  

“Nice!” Kent yells back.

They fall silent, leaning against the wall and taking a moment to cool down as they wait for Beck and Dave to get back with their drinks. Kent is buzzed but he’s not drunk; he’s had just enough that there’s a pleasant haze over everything. Or maybe it’s not the alcohol, but tonight’s victory. It’s numbed the exhaustion of playing over twenty minutes, so now he feels like he could still dance all night.

The guys show up again, drinks precariously balanced between their fingers. “We got shots!” Beck bellows.

Kent groans. But really, what was he expecting, letting Beck get the drinks? He knocks back the shot, then sips at the drink Dave hands him. It doesn’t matter if he’s hungover tomorrow—all he has to do is get on a plane. Their next game isn’t ‘till the day after, and they’ve already secured their playoffs spot anyway.

A girl on the dancefloor, at the edge of the crowd, is making eyes at him. The lights of the club reflect off the dark skin of her arms. Kent isn’t going to take anyone home tonight, but he winks at her anyway, because he feels loose and bold and victorious.

Esko yells in his ear. “Get it, Parse!”

He might not want to take her home, but he does want to dance. She holds his gaze as she lifts her arms up and moves sensuously, invitingly, and Kent knocks back the rest of his drink.

He pushes off the wall. “Later, kids,” he tells the others. He doesn’t think they can hear it over the music, but it doesn’t matter.

  
         -------------  


**Scotty [9:18 am]:** which of you fuckheads let me drink this much

**Maestro [9:20 am]:** Dude you’re such a lightweight, how could you possibly be hungover when you’re wasted after two drinks

**Scotty [9:21 am]:** shut up

**Kent [9:22 am]:** does this make u feel bettr

**Kent [9:22 am]:** [PHOTO]

**Scotty [9:23 am]:** Fuck off with your cat pics

**Kent [9:24 am]:** wow excuse u

**Dave [9:26 am]:** parser is that your way of telling us you got pussy last night lol

**Kent [9:27 am]:** lol

**Kent [9:28 am]:** just fyi if any of u hungover motherfuckers r late t the plane ill murder u

  
         -------------

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

Parson puts the puck in the empty net!

|

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

We win our last game in the regular season and @kvparson90 ends it with his 80th point!

 

**NHL** @NHL · 1d

Check out the schedule for the first round of the 2018 Stanley Cup Playoffs here: atnhl.com/je80fue8a

 

**NHL** @NHL · 1d

The first round starts in four days, this is what the 2018 playoffs bracket looks like!

[PHOTO]

  
         -------------

 

“Hey,” Kent says as he opens the door and gestures Tomas into the living room. “Sorry, I was just feeding Kit and she’s getting impatient, gimme a sec. You can go ahead.” He grabs Kit’s food bowl from the coffee table, grimacing when he straightens back up. Tomas knows some old and new injuries have been bothering him in the last bit of the regular season, but whenever he asks about it, Kent just gives him some variant of “it’s almost the playoffs, I don’t have time for injuries.”

Tomas has been by often enough now that he grabs them both drinks before settling on the couch. The TV is already on, playing the last couple of minutes of the cooking competition show that’s on before _The Bachelorette_.

He pulls out his phone and opens Twitter. At the top of his feed, there are two tweets from his most loyal readers.

 

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 17m

@TomasNadeau hey man, pretty sure you misattributed a quote in your latest post. I don’t think it was Overlay who said that thing abt Bettmann

**Dustin Roy** @thehockeywritr · 13m

@TomasNadeau I thought it was Gary Lovett who argued for Bettmann to quit

 

“Oh, thanks man,” Kent says, gesturing at the drinks on the table as he takes his usual spot on the opposite end of the couch. It never stops making Tomas’ heart twinge a little, when Kent sits as far away from him as he possibly can. “Damn, this episode is gonna be good. Just what I need to start the playoffs on a high note. I’m betting on Mark to get sent home, you?”

“Ah, sorry, I think I made a mistake in the blog post I put up today,” Tomas says. Kent glances over, his excited expression replaced by a wide grin. Tomas hates the way Kent reacts when he mentions his blog. It’s apparently just some sort of reflex on Kent’s part, now: when Tomas says ‘blog’, put on a fake smile and change the subject as fast as possible. Tomas ignores it and continues, “Do you mind if I edit it? Otherwise I’m just going to have Twitter on my case all day tomorrow.”

Kent waves a hand at him, still grinning too widely. “Go ahead, man, I’ll pause it. Thank fuck for interactive TV, right?” He grabs the remote to pause the TV just as _The Bachelorette’s_ cold open begins.

Tomas quickly pulls up his blog post and finds the quote he’s apparently misattributed. But the article he referenced does claim it was Overlay who said it, and the first three Google results aren’t original sources either.

When he glances over, Kent’s grabbed his laptop and seems to be involved in whatever he’s doing, so Tomas doesn’t feel too guilty about switching to YouTube to find the original Lovett interview. Kent looks up briefly when he starts playing videos, but quickly turns his attention back to his own screen.

It takes him four or five videos to confirm that it was, in fact, retired defenseman Gary Lovett who said what Tomas quoted in his blog post. He pulls the post up and makes a quick edit in the text, then adds a note to the bottom to say he made the change. He adds in the link to the YouTube video, then goes back to Twitter.

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 10s

Fixed the misattribution in my latest post. Thanks to @thehockeywritr, @sportsfan647 and others for pointing out the error!

 

He puts his phone away and looks over. Kent is looking at his screen with a little concentrated frown on his face. It’s… It does things to Tomas’ heart that he really wishes it wouldn’t.

“ _Qu’est-ce que tu fais?”_ he asks.

Kent starts and looks up. “Oh, nothing, I’m just on GoFundMe,” he says.

“GoFundMe?” Tomas asks.

“Yeah, it’s this website where people try to get crowdfunding for, like, their projects or for stuff that’s going on in their life,” Kent says.

“No, I know what GoFundMe is,” Tomas says, though he’s not sure what Kent’s doing on the site. “Anything interesting?”

Kent shrugs, but turns the screen towards him, and Tomas dares to shuffle a little closer so he can actually read the words.

“I was just looking at this one,” Kent says. “Their house burned down two days ago, and insurance is being shitty, so they had to pay upfront for staying in a hotel and stuff. They’re trying to find a place to rent while they wait to see if insurance is at least going to help them rebuild.”

There’s a picture on the screen of a mom and two little kids in front of a half-collapsed house. Next to it, there’s a green bar with ‘$5640 of $5000 goal’.

“They’re already at their goal,” Tomas says, a little puzzled. He didn’t think crowdfunding was usually that effective, though maybe a picture of little kids and a burned-down house just works that well.

“Yeah, I just funded it,” Kent says. Tomas blinks at him, but Kent doesn’t see, because he’s looking at the screen, clicking on the next tab. “Let me just do this one other one and then we can get to the episode, yeah? I don’t usually do more than ten at a time, but this last one is someone’s cat that got an infection, and I can never resist the cat ones. Which is totally Kit’s fault.” He glances fondly at Kit, who’s asleep on top of her cat tree.

Tomas realizes he’s staring. He feels warm all over, and he can only imagine the ridiculous smile that must be on his face. He can’t let Kent see it. “Uh, sure,” he says. “I’m, ah. I’m just gonna go to the bathroom.”

He doesn’t actually have to pee, so he just ends up staring at himself in the bathroom mirror. He definitely does have a goofy, love-struck smile on his face. What the fuck is he supposed to do with this man? This man who stops to give fans autographs even when he’s tired and not in the mood, who stays long at his coaching sessions because one of the kids just needed a hug and a chance to vent, who apparently throws thousands of dollars at GoFundMe campaigns when he’s bored and doesn’t even seem to realize that it’s anything unusual?

This man who still won’t sit within two feet of him, he reminds himself. This man who backpedals out of any conversation in which Tomas brings up his blog, one of the most important accomplishments of Tomas’ life so far, just because he sometimes mentions he’s gay there.

He turns on the tap and washes his hands just to feel like he didn’t come here completely for nothing. Then he takes a deep breath, lets it out on a sigh, and heads back to the couch to watch _The Bachelorette._

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3h

Playoffs are here! Today is game day in San Jose! Four more hours to game 1… #AcesVsSharks

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3h

Win tickets to Round 1, Game 3 #AcesVsSharks by tweeting us your picture of you in your Aces gear!

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

Check out Tomas Nadeau’s preview of Round 1 on nhl.com #AcesVsSharks t.co/ioPFjepLf

**Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 1h

The Sharks don’t stand a chance!! Go Aces!! #AcesVsSharks

 

**Maria Olafson** @MariaO1987 · 1h

@parsonacesfan please, they’ll eat you alive

 

**\-------------** ****  
  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 5h

Time for Game 6! We want to win and take this to Game 7!

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1h

Congratulations, @SanJoseSharks.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 10m

“We gave it our best. We never gave up. I’m really proud of the team.” So are we, @kvparson90!

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3m

Thanks to all our fans for the support this season!

  
         -------------  


The lights in the club are intense and the bass is pounding, and Kent is dancing with some dark-haired woman. He doesn’t remember how many drinks he’s had, but he can also barely remember yesterday’s Game 6, so the alcohol is doing its job.

Maestro appears next to him out of nowhere. Kent abandons the girl when Maestro drags him out of the densest part of the crowd.

“I’m going home,” Maestro shouts over the music. He’s holding hands with a blond woman who is making eyes at him. She seems tipsy but still fairly clear-eyed. Kent nods. “You good to get a ride with Scotty and Carly?”

Kent nods and doesn’t try to tell him that those two went home a while ago. Maestro holds his fist out and Kent bumps it with his. “Laters,” Kent says, or slurs.

Then he’s dancing again, with a different girl and then another one, and he thinks there’s something nice about knowing that all of his teammates have left. He’s the only one here. Well, he’s not the only one here—but the crowd around him is whipped up by the music, and none of them know who he is, and none of them know he isn’t going to win a Stanley Cup this year.

The woman he’s dancing with grinds her ass against him, and then she turns and kisses him, sloppy because she’s probably even more drunk than he is, and he slides his hands down her back to her ass and kisses her until he feels like he can’t breathe and he might be sick. Then he leaves her and fights his way out of the crowd and tries not to think about what he just did or how he should be taking her home like his teammates would. 

He knocks back another whiskey at the bar, and leans against it for a moment, or maybe more than a moment. It’s hard to tell where time goes.

He leaves the club and crosses the street to where he knows there’s a different club and he tells himself that he’s too drunk to know what he’s doing, and maybe he is, because he knows he shouldn’t be going here but he’s going anyway. Then he’s back where there’s loud music and flashing lights and dancing people. He orders another whiskey at a different bar and makes his way into a different crowd, and then he’s dancing with a guy. The guy is the same height as him, and he has tan skin and bleached-blond hair, and he pulls Kent close against him so they’re touching everywhere. He leans down and presses his lips to Kent’s neck, and Kent thinks _yes_ and _keep going_ and _it wasn’t like this with that girl_ and _I’m so drunk_.

The guy grabs his hand and pulls him away from the dancefloor. Then they’re in a gross bathroom stall somewhere and they’re kissing, kissing, kissing, and then Kent is on his knees, tasting skin and sweat, feeling hands in his hair, hearing groans above him, and there’s nothing to think about except heat and arousal and sex.

  
         -------------  


When he wakes up and spends half the morning puking, he doesn’t know if it’s from the drinking or from the dim, alcohol-muddled memories of what he did last night.

  
         -------------  


Michelle flies out to Vegas to meet with him once the sting of the Aces’ playoffs elimination has faded a little. They meet up in a quiet little coffeeshop not far from the Strip.

“I like your new haircut,” Kent says when she finds her way to his table. The last time he saw her, her hair almost reached her shoulders, but now it’s in a short, asymmetrical cut.

“Thank you,” she says, sitting down with her coffee. “I see your hair is still as unruly as ever.” He grins at her as she pulls out a binder full of paperwork as well as her laptop. “How’s everything going?” she asks.

“Well, I’m not in the playoffs,” he says wryly. She gives him a sympathetic smile, and he sighs. “I know we wouldn’t have made it all the way, but it still sucks to go out in the first round.” The Sharks have just beaten the Kings to go on to the Conference Final, and Kent will never get used to the times when there’s still hockey going on but he’s not playing.

“There’s always next year,” Michelle says.

“Next year’s not a cup year either,” Kent says. “I mean, you never know. It’s not like I’m not going to try. But there’s not a lot of cap space for new talent, and we did make it to the playoffs, so we’re not going to draft that high. I don’t know, I feel like we’re in this weird space where we’re not rebuilding and we’re not really contending either, and I’m not a fan.”

She looks at him thoughtfully as she spreads out her paperwork. “Well, we’ll see what management does in the summer,” she says. “Let’s go over some financial updates first, and then we’ll talk about free agency.”

He’s not surprised to hear her bring it up. His contract doesn’t end until next year, but he’s eligible to sign an extension starting on July 1st. It’s been on his mind on and off for months. He knows Michelle will have plans, thoughts on how to negotiate so he gets the highest possible salary. For some reason, the thought doesn’t fill him with anything other than a vague sense of discomfort.

Michelle takes him through how his investments are doing, but his thoughts keep drifting back to the contract extension until she says, “So, let’s talk free agency.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I’ve talked to management,” Michelle says. “They’re interested in signing you for another seven-year contract after this one.” She looks at him and frowns a little at whatever she sees on his face. “Is that something you’ve thought about?”

“Uh,” he says. “I—Yeah, I mean, I guess?”

She taps her pen against her notepad. “The advantage of signing when you can is that you’ll be assured of your place with the Aces for another eight years,” she says. “You’ve just had a good season. You’ve just had multiple good seasons. If you were to have a worse season next year—because of injury or for any other reason—it would be in your best interest to already have a contract lined up.” He knows this, of course, and he’s not sure why she’s telling him. He’s pretty sure everyone is expecting him to sign with the Aces again this summer, and the thought puts a knot in his stomach for reasons he can’t identify.

“I know,” he says.

“Of course, there are disadvantages to signing this summer, as well,” she says, and he looks up from where he was tracing the rim of his glass. “If you were to wait until next year, you’d go into free agency without a contract, which means multiple teams could bid. I expect the Aces would still want to sign you next year, and it puts us in a better bargaining position, especially if you’ll actually consider going to a different team.”

Kent has never considered playing for a different team. He’s always assumed he’d say with the Aces his entire career. “Right,” he says.

“It also improves your bargaining position if the Aces don’t do that well next season,” Michelle says. “Since there’s less incentive to stay with a team when there’s less chance of a cup. Of course, if you do sign with the Aces for another eight years, that’s plenty of time for them to do a rebuild and win more cups. Not that you don’t have enough already,” she adds with a chuckle.

Kent huffs out a laugh, but the memory of the cups he’s won doesn’t quite soothe the sting of knowing that the 2018 playoffs are going on right now, and he isn’t in them. “So what, uh, what sort of salary would I be looking at?” he asks.

Michelle is still looking at him like she’s trying to discern his thoughts, but after a moment, she says, “It depends. In terms of what you’re worth to a team, well, you’ve been in the league’s top five for points in all but one of your seasons. And you’ve shown you can work with different wingers and in different situations—I mean, I don’t need to tell you you’re one of the best players in the league. If you waited for free agency and were willing to sign with any team, you could potentially be the highest-paid player in the NHL, depending on the length of the contract. It depends a little on what kind of contract Tavares is going to get, and maybe on Matthews’ deal if he signs one before you do. But we could probably go over fourteen million without a problem. A little less, maybe, if you wanted most of it as signing bonuses. But the Aces aren’t going to pay you that much, because they don’t have the cap space.”

“Right,” Kent says.

“The Aces said they want to keep your current salary, but that’s nonsense,” she goes on. “You’re not their RFA anymore, and you’ve more than proved your worth.”

Whenever she mentions the Aces, he feels uncomfortable and reluctant. But the idea of signing with a different team is even weirder.

“What do you think I should do?” he asks Michelle, because she’s always given him good advice. She’s the one who helped him adjust to Vegas, who helped him negotiate the contract he’s on right now.

She looks thoughtful. “Well, it depends what you want, doesn’t it? If you want to stay with the Aces regardless, you should sign before next season. We could probably negotiate up to eleven or twelve million AAV. If it’s most important to you to get the highest salary you can, you should wait until you’re a free agent. If it’s most important to you to be with a winning team, you should wait until next year, too.”

He doesn’t know what’s important to him. Honestly, it was easier when he was an RFA and didn’t have a choice in the matter.

When he doesn’t say anything, Michelle adds, “If you don’t know what you want, you should wait.”

“Yeah?” he says.

“There’s no rush,” she says, and the sense of relief that brings is bigger than he expected. “You can sign an extension any time starting in July. Once you’ve done it, you can’t go back.”

“Okay,” he says. “I think—I think we should wait.”

“I’ll talk to management,” she says. “They might bring it up with you separately. Just refer them back to me. I’m your agent, I handle the negotiations, and they aren’t supposed to be pressuring you to negotiate or sign anything.”

“Okay,” he says. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t think about why, exactly, he wouldn’t want to just sign another contract in the city that’s been his home for ten years.

  
         -------------

 

**Kent [6:15 am]:** usual time tnite?

**Tomas [9:47 am]:** Your off-season started, why are you even up that early?

**Kent [9:47 am]:** thats when i wake

**Tomas [9:48 am]:** There’s something wrong with you

**Tomas [9:48 am]:** Usual time is fine

  
         -------------

 

**Tomas [11:05 pm]:** Still can’t believe she sent Daveed home

**Kent [11:06 pm]:** im so upset

  
         -------------

 

Kent parks Carmen Electra next to Swoops’ car in the driveway and takes a deep breath before stepping out from his airconditioned car into the sweltering Vegas air. The sun is about to set, and the temperature will go down fast enough. For now, it’s still obvious that they’re in the first proper heatwave of the year, here in the late days of May.

He rings the doorbell, and a moment later Sanne appears at the doorway. She’s clearly ready to head out, her long blonde hair tied back, hoop earrings matching a set of bracelets that tinkle together as she moves. She holds the door open for him to come in as she grabs her jacket from the coat rack and folds it over one arm.

“Hey,” she says. “Jeff is in the kitchen.”

“Is that Kent?” Swoops yells.

“Yeah!” Sanne hollers back.

“Okay, hang on, don’t leave yet,” Swoops shouts, and then a moment later he comes running into the hallway. “Good, you’re here before she left,” he tells Kent, who raises an eyebrow at him.

“Yes?” Kent says.

“Good, okay, ‘cause I got—we’ve got news.” Swoops grins at Sanne and tugs on her arm until she steps closer. Swoops wraps his arms around her from behind and rests his chin on the top of her head.

Kent’s eye is caught by the way their hands lace together over her stomach, and he guesses what’s going on right as Swoops says, “Sanne’s pregnant.”

They’re both smiling, looking overjoyed, and Kent can’t help but grin back at them. “That’s awesome,” he says. “Congratulations! When can we expect the little bundle of joy?”

“December,” Sanne says.

“Okay, so that’s…” He tries to calculate the months in his head.

“I’m about seven weeks along,” she says.

“Cool,” he says, though he has very little idea of what that actually means in terms of baby development or whether she’d have annoying pregnancy symptoms yet. “Am I keeping this secret for now, or…?”

Swoops is still looking ecstatic, and it’s infectious. Kent’s been a little off-kilter the past month, still adjusting to the season having ended. But there’s no way he can feel down in the presence of two people so radiant with joy.

“Yeah,” Swoops says. “I’m going to tell the rest of the team in a month or so. We Skyped both our parents yesterday, Sanne’s going to tell her best friend tonight, and we’re going to tell our siblings tomorrow, but other than that we’re keeping it quiet for now.”

“My mother is so excited,” Sanne says with a little chuckle. “It’s her first grandchild. She’s going to dote on this kid all the way from the Netherlands.” She rubs her hand over her stomach again. “Anyway, I should go, sweetheart, or I’m going to be late.”

“Okay,” Swoops says, pressing a kiss to her hair and then to her lips when she turns. “Veel plezier,” he adds, and Sanne looks amused at his no doubt horrendous accent.

“Bedankt schatje,” she says. “Bye Kent!”

“Have fun,” he says, because he’s definitely not going to try his hand at Dutch. There’s already Russian, Swedish and Norwegian in the locker room, and along with French, those are quite enough languages to contend with.

Sanne disappears out the door, and Kent follows Swoops to the living room, where he’s already set out a couple decks of cards and a pile of chips on the table.

“Blackjack?” Kent says.

“Sounds good to me,” Swoops says, counting out a stack of chips and sliding it across the table.

“You want a beer?”

Swoops gives him a thumbs-up, so Kent disappears to the kitchen and gets them both beers. When he gets back, Swoops is already dealing. They play in silence for a few rounds.

“So, no trouble getting pregnant, then?” Kent says after a while.

Swoops glances up. “No, it was the second month,” he says. “It’s scary though, man. Like, lots of people have miscarriages, apparently, especially right at the start. We found out two weeks ago, and I was worried if I so much as looked at her stomach something might go wrong.” He smiles a little self-deprecatingly. “She had to tell me to get over myself a couple of times and I think I’m better now.”

Kent chuckles. “It’s weird that you’re going to be a dad,” he says.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Swoops says. He gestures for Kent to deal him another card, and Kent slides one across the table. “In seven months there’s going to be this tiny human and it’s going to be my kid. Feels unreal. And now we gotta do all this stuff, like tell people and think of names and figure out childcare and get a nursery together. It’s… I don’t know. It’s pretty cool though.”

“Yeah?”

Swoops motions that he’s standing at 19, so Kent turns over his card and then deals himself another. He ends up at 18, so he slides a little stack of chips over to Swoops, who stacks them on top of the ones he already has.

“Yeah,” Swoops finally says. “Feels like a new phase of life. And I’m just excited to have a kid, you know? I mean, I like kids, and I’m just looking forward to watching someone become a person.”

Kent hides a smile by focusing on shuffling the deck. He deals for both of them before he responds. “I get to be the cool uncle, right?”

Swoops laughs. “Absolutely.”

  
         -------------

 

**Tomas [2:03 am]:** By the way, I’m guessing we’re skipping this week’s Bachelorette if this goes to Game 7?

**Kent [6:23 am]:** at least when i txt the sun is up

**Kent [6:23 am]:** but yes im having the team over to watch game 7

**Kent [6:24 am]:** if there is one ofc but i think the jets r gonna drag this out

**Kent [6:52 am]:** ill dvr the bachelorette if u wanna come over fri instead

**Tomas [12:05 pm]:** I’m out with a friend on Friday, how’s Saturday?

**Kent [12:06 pm]:** good mrning or shld i say afternoon

**Kent [12:06 pm]:** sat wrks

  
         -------------

Kent’s living room is loud. Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final is about to enter the third period, and a minor feud has broken out between the Canadians in the room (most loudly represented by Scotty, Ryan, Maestro and Beck) and the Americans (most loudly represented by Kelly, Tower, Swoops and Kent). Kent is 90% sure Kelly started the night off cheering for the Jets. But then Maestro came in and declared that today was the day Canada finally took its first Stanley Cup in decades. This immediately transformed the room into a nationalist battlefield, with Kelly firmly on the American side. The half of the room that isn’t from North America has split pretty evenly between the two camps.

The game went to second intermission at 1-1. Kent hands out a couple more beers—first to his fellow Americans, then to the traitorous Canadians across the room—and pours another whiskey for himself and for Dave. He’s given custody of “only passable vodka in entire cabinet, Parson, is disgrace” to Birds a while ago, who is keeping himself and the two other Russians supplied, so it seems like everyone is set for the third period.

He claims his spot on the couch, between Swoops and Sims, just as the last commercial break ends and the screen switches to the third period faceoff.

“Think it’s gonna go to overtime?” Sims says.

The Canadian cluster across the room is listening, so Kent says, “No, I think the Lightning are going to crush those weak-ass Canadians.” That sets off Maestro and Swoops for another chirping war, and once they’re suitably distracted, Kent follows it up with, “But probably, yeah. Pretty damn tight. Hellebuyck hasn’t even let himself blink since that first goal, and I’m not sure how the Jets are going to put anything past Vasilevskiy either. So I wouldn’t be surprised if it went to OT or double OT before either of them lets anything get in the net again.”

Sims doesn’t actually respond again, but then he often just ends conversations in the middle. Kent’s played with weirder goalies in his career, so he’s learned not to mind.

“They’d probably melt if they stepped outside now,” Swoops is saying beside him, which is apparently a chirp about Canadian climates even though Swoops is from Minnesota.

“They’d probably apologize if they put the puck in the net,” Tower adds, and really, his teammates’ Canada chirps could use some work. But the puck is in play, so Kent leans forward a little and focuses on the game. He’s watched games with teammates before, and a bunch of them seem to just want to chat, but Kent can never focus on anything but the screen while the puck is in play. There’s no sport more fascinating than hockey, even after two decades on the ice.

The game has developed into a proper goalie battle—the shots are high on both sides, but neither the Jets’ nor the Lightning’s goalie is budging. Kucherov gets a breakaway, then Blake Wheeler gets another one a minute later, but the two goalies both get in a beautiful save and the game remains stuck at one apiece. The Jets take a penalty, but they kill off the two minutes short-handed despite some close calls.

Everyone gradually focuses in on the screen as the period goes on. The room falls almost completely silent except for the sound of the TV.

“It’s tight, man,” Scotty says during the second TV timeout. “That poke-check from Hellebuyck was something else. God, I want the Cup to come to Canada.”

Nobody even takes him up on the obvious opening for more international drama. Half the room has been there, in a Game 7 of the Stanley Cup final. The others weren’t with the team when they won their last cup, but they must’ve imagined it, dreamed about it growing up. Kent can still feel it in his body: the bone-deep exhaustion of a full season and a full playoff series, the pain in every joint and muscle, the adrenaline of a sold-out stadium, the first stride on clean ice with mountains of pressure on his back, the indescribable elation of watching the puck sail into the net.

There’s still no goal as the final minute ticks away, and then regulation time has ended, and the Stanley Cup is still not won. There’s a couple of seconds of silence in the room.

“Damn,” Swoops says finally.

That makes everyone break out into chatter. Kent leans over Swoops to poke Ryan in the side of the head. “Get everyone another round,” he says.

“What? Why me?” Ryan complains.

“First off, you’re Canadian and that annoys me right now,” Kent says. “Also, you’re the youngest person here who is not actually underage, so get to it.”

Kelly glares at him, which is… well, it’s fair. Kent knows it’s kind of hypocritical that he doesn’t let Kelly drink when he was a borderline alcoholic himself at twenty. But better to be a hypocrite than an enabler. Plus, he lets Kelly get away with pilfering half of Beck’s drinks, anyway.

Ryan gets everyone drinks while the rest of them attempt to out-analyze the experts in the studio. Once Ryan has supplied him with a new whiskey, Kent takes a sip and nudges Swoops in the side. “I think Byfuglien has a knee injury,” he says.

Swoops glances over. “Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” Kent says. “He’s moving awkwardly on the turns. I saw it in Game 6, too. Today it was worse in the third than in the first. I think he’s gonna give up the goal.”

Swoops looks skeptical, but after a few seconds he grins a little and Kent knows what’s coming before he says, “How much would you put on it?”

“On what, a Tampa goal? Byfuglien giving it up or just being on the ice for it? Him disclosing an injury later?” Some of the guys are listening in on them now, not that a Kent-and-Swoops bet is anything unusual.

“Byfuglien on the ice for the Tampa game-winner,” Swoops says. “How much?”

Kent frowns, considering. The stakes of the bet never really matter in terms of their actual incomes, but it still matters relative to the other bets they’ve taken recently. “Five hundred,” he says, and at Swoops’ raised eyebrow, adds, “Only ‘cause it’s the final.”

“You’re going to put five hundred on something that specific?” Maestro says.

“You want in on it?” Kent says.

“Dude, don’t bet against Parse on hockey stuff,” Scotty warns.

“Yeah, what the hell, sure,” Maestro says. “Jets are gonna win anyway. I’ll take it at the same terms—Tampa wins and Byfuglien on the ice, I’ll pay up; if not, you pay up.”

Kent smirks at him. “Sweet.”

“Okay, if Canada misses out on the Cup a-fucking-gain, I’m blaming you,” Scotty says, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at Maestro.

Maestro rolls his eyes. “Even if the Lightning win, there’s no way—”

Kent tunes out the discussion between the two of them and glances back at the screen. They’re on another commercial break, and then the puck will drop for the start of OT.

“Think anyone’s gonna kiss under the Cup this year? Last year was fucking boring in comparison,” Dave says, on the other side of Sims.

Sims chuckles. “Probably not. Plus, even if it’s two guys again, it probably won’t make as big a splash as the first time,” he says.

Kent feels his hands go clammy, but the conversation seems to have ended already. It’s escaped the notice of the guys, who’re still arguing the merits of taking bets against Kent. A moment later, everyone’s attention is drawn to the TV when OT starts up.

You can hear a pin drop until seven minutes have been played without a goal, and the broadcast goes to commercial again.

“Yeah, I see it,” Swoops tells Kent.

“The knee thing? Yeah, he’s gotta be dying. Not sure they should even be playing him when he’s getting to be this much of a liability,” Kent says. “If the Lightning see it, they can hone in on it specifically.”

There’s a bit of chatter until the game starts up again. Then the room falls silent, but not for long—a minute into play, the Jets put Byfuglien’s pairing on the ice again. The Lightning change to their first line immediately. Kent is already half out of his seat when Stamkos passes to Kucherov and Kucherov dangles the puck around Byfuglien, who is far too slow to turn. Kucherov has the entire ice to pass to, and so he passes back to Stamkos, who has sought position close to the goal and tips the puck in.

The Lightning rink _explodes_ , players piling onto the ice, the cheers deafening even through Kent’s speakers. Half of Kent’s living room is yelling too. Swoops slaps Kent on the back—he doesn’t mind losing bets all that much, though Maestro looks considerably less pleased.

“Fucking _fuck_ ,” Scotty grumbles. “I fucking told you, Maestro, I _told_ you, you fucking jinxed it.”

Kent just laughs.

  
         -------------  


**NHL** @NHL · 4h

Free agency is almost here! Which teams will build up their blue lines?

 

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 4h

Bets on how much Parson’s going to sign for?

|

**Sarah** **♠** @parsonacesfan · 4h

What?? He’s with us for another season right? If I have to worry about him signing with another team in two days I’m going to DIE

|

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 4h

Chill, he’s under contract till next year. But he’s eligible to re-sign w/ aces on July 1st for the contract after this

|

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 4h

I’m thinking he will. He’s obvs in love with the team so why wait?

  
         -------------

 

**Kent [10:43 am]:** i miss the bachelorette already lol

**Tomas [2:05 pm]:** So what are we watching next?

**Kent [2:10 pm]:** new season of survivor is abt t start i think

**Kent [2:10 pm]:** but it airs wednesdays not thursdays

**Tomas [2:12 pm]:** Perfect, that works, I’ll see you Wednesday then?

**Kent [2:14 pm]:** yup

  
         -------------

 

**Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 5m

I miss hockey.

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 2m

You and me both.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week's French:  
> "Aww pauvre Kent, c'est tellement terrible ce qu'il t'arrives" = Aww, poor Kent, it's really terrible what you're going through  
> "J'espère que tu vas survivre à tout ça" = I hope you'll survive all this  
> “Désolé pour ça" = sorry about this  
> “Ce n’est pas un problème" = no problem  
> “Qu’est-ce que tu fais?” = What are you doing?
> 
> This week's Dutch (because I couldn't resist the opportunity to make this fic trilingual):  
> "Veel plezier" = have fun  
> "Bedankt schatje" = thanks honey
> 
> Next week: Something's gotta give.
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up, Kent made ill-advised decisions at a club and chose not to re-sign with the Aces (yet). Also, pining. This week: The 2018-2019 season is about to start, but first, some things come to a head. Also, not ALL of my characters are OCs.
> 
> Heads up: I didn't put those tags there for nothing. This chapter's a doozy. 
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

Hockey is almost back! Two more weeks until we host the 2018 Rookie Tournament, and after that, training camp! Get excited!

|

**Jeff Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

This seems like a good time for an announcement then.

 

**Jeff Troy** @ SwoopThereItIs · 1d

I’m very excited to let you all know that @mrsswoops and I are expecting a new addition to the family in December.

|

**Jeff Troy** @ SwoopThereItIs · 1d

To my future kid: I know you can’t read yet, but I hope you know I can’t wait to meet you.

 

**Sanne Schouten** @Mrsswoops · 1d

Now that the news is out, please bear with me as I post all the pictures of Jeff trying to DIY the nursery

[PHOTO]

|

[View this thread]

|

**Jeff Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

“trying”?

|

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 1d

swoops remember when u called me bc u couldn’t figure out how to open a can of paint

|

**Jeff Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

Et tu Brute?

 

\------

 

Tomas is almost done writing his latest blog post on training camp predictions when his phone rings. He very nearly doesn’t pick up, because he just came up with a very satisfying way to phrase his conclusion and he doesn’t want to get distracted and forget the exact words that just popped into his mind. But the thought that it could be important nags at his brain with every ring, and he picks up just before his phone can take the call to his voicemail.

“Tomas Nadeau,” he says.

“Yes, hello, this is Yusra Hakim, I’m with _Out_ magazine,” says a cheerful voice on the other end of the line. “I’m calling about a commission for a feature in our October issue. Is this a good time?”

Half an hour later, he has a contract offer sitting in his email inbox, and he’s buzzing out of his skin with excitement. He never does remember exactly what his great blog post phrasing was. He posts the piece anyway, and then his eye falls to the time in the corner of his laptop screen.

“ _Merde_ ,” he mumbles as he grabs for his phone.

**Tomas [7:41 pm]:** Sorry, going to be late, be there by the first commercial break

Within seconds, there’s a reply.

**Kent [7:41 pm]:** ill dvr it

**Kent [7:41 pm]:** u cant miss the start its the merger ep

**Kent [7:41 pm]:** youd miss all the draaamaaa

**Kent [7:42 pm]:** we can start it up once u get here

**Tomas [7:42 pm]:** Cool, see you in 30

He checks that his blog post went up correctly, tweets the link, and then grabs his car keys. He just makes it to Kent’s within half an hour.

“Got caught up writing?” Kent asks as he gestures Tomas towards the couch and hands him a beer. On the TV, _Survivor_ is paused on the opening reel.

“Actually, I got a call for a writing commission.” Tomas is grinning as he says it. Seriously, this new assignment is so cool.

“Oh, awesome,” Kent says, hopping over the back of the couch like the show-off he is and settling on the other side. Tomas hasn’t quite stopped noticing the amount of distance Kent always insists on putting between them, but he’s gotten used to it. “A commission for what?”

“ _Out_ magazine,” Tomas says. “When I went into sports writing, I didn’t think I was going to get to write for an LGBT publication. They’re doing a feature on Jack Zimmermann as the first out hockey player. They wanted me to write it, because I’m known for writing on LGBT issues in the hockey world. Isn’t that amazing?” He’s gesturing with his beer bottle and his empty hand as he speaks. “It’s going to be a cover story, a feature piece with an interview. So I get to fly out to Providence to talk to him. He hasn’t even done that many interviews since he came out, or before that for that matter. He did that short TV bit right after that Cup win where they touched on it briefly, and I think there was also an article on _Sportsnet_ early the next season. But he hasn’t done anything since then. And I get why he might not have wanted to talk about it much, and it’s just awesome that I get to be the first to do a proper interview with him. It’s going to be fascinating, you know?” He can’t help but keep talking, enthusiasm taking over. “I write about this stuff all the time. I have some insight into sports culture and LGBT issues from where I’m standing. But I know it has to be different for him as a bi player. I’m so excited I’m going to get to exchange ideas with him about it.”

It’s at this point, when he’s had a chance to express some of the excitement he’s been feeling since Yusra’s phone call, that he registers Kent’s expression.

Kent, as always, is curled up against the armrest on the other side of the couch. He’s staring at the TV rather than looking at Tomas. Instead of looking overly cheerful—which is what Tomas has gotten used to, at mentions of his blog—he looks… blank. He’s just staring at his TV like he’s not really listening, except Tomas knows that can’t be true.

After a couple of seconds, Kent realizes Tomas is looking at him, and Tomas can see the moment he remembers to fake-grin and his expression comes back online.

“Awesome,” Kent says, all his teeth visible in a grin so wide it’s almost feral. “ _Survivor?”_ He gestures at the TV.

It deflates all of Tomas’ excitement in an instant. He knows he has no business hoping for Kent to return his crush, and no business hoping Kent will ever be enthusiastic about his blog or affirming of his sexuality. He knew that pretty much from the moment they started hanging out, and he made his bed when he decided not to cut things off before they really started. He shouldn’t be this disappointed. But it’s one thing to know that, and another to have Kent throw Tomas’ good mood out the window by refusing to even acknowledge Tomas’ professional and personal victories, just because they have something to do with LGBT issues. _Crisse de tabarnak,_ Kent is still supposed to be his _friend_.

“No,” Tomas says flatly. He realizes he’s clenched his fists and makes a conscious effort to relax his fingers.

“What?” Kent pauses mid-movement as he reaches for the remote.

“No, not _Survivor_ ,” Tomas says. “You can’t—you’re such a _dick_.”

“What?” Kent says again. He’s got some sort of deer-in-the-headlights expression going on now.

Tomas abruptly jumps up from the couch because he needs to _move_ , can’t just sit still for this. He’s switched to French before he knows it, because it’s easier and he knows Kent will understand either way. “ _Seriously? I have—I get the professional opportunity of a lifetime and you can’t even muster a ‘congratulations’? I know this is because it’s with_ Out _,”_ he spits, pacing back and forth in front of the couch _. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you’re always fine when we talk about_ your _job but once it’s about_ mine _, you get all weird and fake and can’t even stand to talk about it for ten seconds! I know this is because I write about LGBT issues_ ,” he bites.

Kent flinches back at his words. “ _Je pense pas—_ ” he starts, but his sentence never gets any further.

Tomas scoffs out a derisive laugh. Now that he’s started, he can feel a well of frustration finally rising to the surface. “ _What, can’t even hear me say the fucking words? You think I don’t see how you freeze up and go all fake whenever I even hint about the fact that I’m gay_?” Kent makes another aborted movement, and it just increases Tomas’ fury. He takes another step forward, reckless, leaning over Kent as he says, “Yeah, that’s right, fucking _gay_. I’m _gay_ , Kent Parson, and I’m not sorry, and I’ll say it as often as I like, so fucking _deal with it_ and stop trying to get away from me like I’m _contagious_.”

Kent jerks a hand up, and for a second Tomas thinks that Kent might punch him—he wouldn’t be the first homophobic hockey player to take a swing at him. But Kent shrinks deeper into the couch instead, and gasps in a deep breath. All of a sudden, Tomas realizes that Kent is breathing awfully fast.

“I—” Kent stutters out. “I c-can’t—” He’s truly hyperventilating now, and when Tomas hesitantly bends forward and touches his fingertips to Kent’s upper arm, Kent shudders like he’s been burned. “ _No_ ,” he blurts, and it’s very nearly a sob.

There’s a post somewhere deep in the archives of Tomas’ blog on the roots of the word _homophobia_ , on how it’s a misnomer because _phobia_ implies fear and homophobia is actually more closely related to anger, hatred, and disgust than to fear.

Kent Parson, shuddering on the couch where Tomas is still half-bent over him, is clearly terrified out of his fucking mind.

“ _Merde,_ ” Tomas says as his righteous fury drains out of him. He takes two, three steps back, almost stumbling over the coffee table. “Kent, hey, hey, _c’est okay_ ,” he says. Shit, what did he _do_? And how is Kent this afraid of him? Tomas can’t possibly be physically imposing—Kent is a professional athlete who they both know could wipe the floor with him.

He has no time to analyze the situation, though, because his first priority is to deal with the panic attack that’s taking place before his eyes. He sinks down to the floor in front of the couch. Kent has curled in on himself, his face buried in his knees. He’s wrapped his arms around his lower legs, his knuckles white where his fingers are bunched into the fabric of his jeans. His shoulders are heaving, his breathing loud in Tomas’ ears.

“ _Kent_ ,” Tomas says, keeping his voice quiet but firm. “You’re having a panic attack,” he says, because he doesn’t know if Kent has these more often and knows what they are. “You’re not in danger, I’m not— _tu vas bien, tu vas bien_ ,” he says helplessly, because he doesn’t know what brought this _on_. “I’m going to breathe slowly. I want you to breathe with me, okay? In for five seconds, then hold, then out with me. It’s okay if you can’t do it right away.”

Kent doesn’t give any indication that he’s heard him, but Tomas starts modeling his breathing anyway, gives quiet “in” and “out” instructions, and after a minute or so, Kent’s breathing slows down. It’s probably another four or five minutes until Kent has matched up with Tomas completely. He still has his face buried in his knees, though, and he doesn’t move for long minutes even after he’s calmed down.

Tomas scoots back to his end of the couch and waits.

What the _hell_ was that? He’s never seen any indication at all that Kent had a panic disorder or some other anxiety issue. Maybe Kent had seemed tense whenever he leaned away from Tomas, but this is on an entirely different level. This isn’t even in the same category as Kent tensing up or pasting on his fake smile when Tomas mentions he’s gay. Is it?

Kent lifts his head from his knees and shuffles so he’s facing the TV rather than Tomas. He looks like a mess. There are tear tracks down his cheeks, sweat on his forehead, and his face is beet red. He glances at Tomas, not quite meeting his eyes, and swallows when he sees Tomas is looking at him.

“ _Survivor_ ,” Kent says, his voice hoarse. “Please.”

There’s something desperate in his expression. Tomas wants, _needs_ to talk this out, but it’s clear that there’s nothing in the world Kent wants less than that.

“Yeah,” he says heavily. “Yeah, sure.”

Kent reaches blindly for the remote, eyes already on the screen. A second later, the program starts up, and the room fills with the _Survivor_ theme music. Whenever Tomas glances at Kent, he’s staring fixedly at the TV. He’s gone from a fierce blush to looking pale and drawn. He still has his legs pulled to his chest, which makes him look small in spite of all his hard-won muscle mass.

Kit wanders out from the bedroom about halfway through the show and jumps onto the couch next to Kent. When Tomas looks over again, Kent is offering her a wan smile and shifting to sit cross-legged so Kit can clamber onto his lap. Kent buries his hands in her fur, and his shoulders relax the tiniest fraction. He glances in Tomas’ direction but doesn’t meet his eyes, and he turns away immediately as soon as he realizes that Tomas is looking at him.

Tomas suppresses a sigh. He still doesn’t have a clue what just happened, except that it looks like he has to re-evaluate everything he knows about Kent.

Even so, he can feel resentment bubbling back up in his chest. _Crisse de tabarnak_ , he came here elated, thrilled at his new assignment, excited to tell his friend. Whatever Kent has going on—even as serious as it clearly is—could he not show even the smallest bit of excitement on Tomas’ behalf?  Despite his confusion and his concern for Kent, he’s also still angry, because damnit, he was _right_. It was unfair of Kent to respond so rudely to Tomas’ enthusiasm.

Eventually, the episode draws to a close. Annie gets eliminated, which is unfortunate because she was Tomas and Kent’s favorite contestant. Tomas isn’t even that invested in the show—it’s just crappy TV that he watches to laugh at with Kent—but it still adds to his resentment at the entire situation.

“Damn,” he grumbles.

Kent huffs out something that’s probably supposed to be a rueful laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “Sucks.”

Tomas knows Kent would normally be ranting about why André should be the one to go, or maybe making fun of Tomas for getting invested in the contestants as if he’s any better. Damnit, tonight was supposed to be fun, a celebration of his hard-earned commission.

“Next week on _Survivor,_ ” Jeff Probst says, and Kent switches to a different channel because they try not to watch the teasers for next week. They’re on some sort of cooking channel now; a chef talks quietly as she minces an onion.

“You want to tell me what happened?” Tomas says, glancing over at Kent.

Kent has his eyes fixed on the TV. “Sorry,” he says. He sounds like he means it, but Tomas isn’t sure what he’s apologizing for.

Tomas sighs. “That’s not—I don’t—You have panic attacks before?” He tries to keep the sharpness from his voice, because Kent must be feeling like shit, even if he also made _Tomas_ feel like shit. Still, he can hear his English come out clipped, his accent heavier than he usually lets it get.

Kit meows in Kent’s lap, and Kent startles at the sound, loosening his fingers from where he was gripping her fur tight. “Sorry, princess,” he mumbles. He doesn’t answer Tomas’ question. What the _fuck_ has happened to Tomas’ Kent, with his chirps and his ridiculous giggle and his easy quips, who always has something to say?

All the same, even this Kent doesn’t get away with treating Tomas like shit. “Fine,” he says. “We don’t talk about that. Okay. _Parfait_.” He can’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but damnit, panic attack or no panic attack, Kent still ruined his good mood even before that. “You want to talk about how we’re friends and yet you don’t want to support my work?”

Kent digs his nails into his arm. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s still not looking Tomas in the eyes; his gaze has settled somewhere on the coffee table. “I was—I’m sorry. _J’suis désolé._ ”

Tomas wants to throw his hands up in frustration, because Kent still isn’t giving any sort of explanation or engaging in the conversation, but what else is Tomas supposed to say?

After a moment, Kent adds, “It’s—it sounds like a great opportunity. I’m happy for you.”

Maybe if he looked Tomas in the eye, Tomas would believe that. “Right, okay,” he says. “Thanks.” He sighs, glances at the beer on the table that he’s barely touched. “I’m going to head home, then,” he says, even though they normally watch whatever else is on TV or just talk hockey until Kent kicks him out.

“’Kay,” Kent says quietly. He picks Kit up with gentle hands and sets her on the couch beside him.

They walk to the door in silence. Before he opens it, though, Kent pauses. He’s looking at the floor when he says, “When are you going to Providence?” His voice is still flat, but at least he’s trying to show interest.

“Friday, probably,” Tomas says. “Should be back by Tuesday.”

“Okay,” Kent says. “Good luck, then. I’m—” He hesitates, then looks up and meets Tomas’ eyes for the first time since Tomas mentioned Providence in the first place. “I really am sorry.”

Tomas isn’t sure what Kent is apologizing for. His homophobia? His non-engagement with Tomas’ work? His panic attack? His lack of answers afterward? At least he is convinced that this apology is sincere, though. Kent looks tired and drawn and like he’s hurting, and Tomas suddenly wants nothing more than to pull him in for a hug. But he knows Kent still doesn’t want him anywhere near him.

He sighs. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “Okay, Kent.”

Kent nods, his gaze flitting down again as he opens the door. “Night,” he says.

“Night,” Tomas echoes.

  
         -------------  


When Tomas lands in Providence, it’s 9:00 pm local time. It’s only 6:00 pm back in Vegas, but Tomas is looking forward to heading to his hotel and having an early night. He got up early this morning to finish his Friday blog post before his flight, and it’s not like he’s been sleeping well the two nights before. He’s still excited about his assignment, but he’s also tense, vaguely guilty about leaving Vegas.

Kent hasn’t responded to Tomas’ mini text rant about the Habs’ bizarre decision to trade their best D-man to the Blue Jackets for a 2nd round draft pick (honestly, why does his team insist on trading away their top defense for demonstrably worse assets?), or when he’d texted him an article with predictions about who’d win _Survivor_ this season.

All right, he can admit it to himself: he’s worried sick about Kent. He’s also kicking himself for never noticing that something was going on. People don’t just have panic attacks out of the blue. There must be signs that he’s missed. He thought he understood the different faces Kent put on—the media-ready smiles and smirks, then the real, warm, dorky Kent that Tomas got to see. But now there’s a new piece of the puzzle, something that must’ve been lurking beneath the surface all that time. Should he have taken Kent’s hot-and-cold behavior more seriously? But since when is it _his_ responsibility to deal with someone else’s homophobia? If that’s even what’s behind it, because Tomas has seen plenty of homophobia but he’s never seen _this_.  

He spends most of his flight trying to figure out what he should do about it, but he hasn’t come to any conclusion—hasn’t even decided what his options could possibly be—by the time he steps through the gate in Providence.

When he turns on his phone to order a Lyft, he finds that he has three texts from Kent.

**Kent [7:17 pm]:** hey p sure ur on ur flight now

**Kent [7:19 pm]:** sry again about lst wed

**Kent [7:22 pm]:** rly hope u have a good time in pvd  & ur assignment goes well

And what is he supposed to do with _that_? He still half suspects that all of Kent’s apologies are more for his panic attack, given the mortification on Kent’s face afterwards, than for the way he’d responded to Tomas’ assignment. At the same time, Kent is clearly trying to engage now. It sounds sincere enough, once he looks past the ridiculous spelling.

Kent is reaching out, but Tomas isn’t sure he wants to meet him halfway. He’s frustrated and fed up, and underneath that he’s _hurt_. Has been hurt for months, maybe, every time Kent grinned at him like he was an ESPN camera. And he still also feels like Kent needs a damn hug and like he wants to be the one to give it. He doesn’t know what to do with any of it. He just wants to sleep.

He puts his phone in his pocket and tries not to think about Kent’s texts. He’s here for an assignment, an assignment he wants to prepare for and focus on.  

He goes over his questions for Zimmermann as his Lyft driver takes him to his hotel. Once he’s checked in, he goes over his prepared notes again and checks Zimmermann’s history so he’s sure he’s got his facts straight.

The plan is to go to sleep early, but once he’s in bed he’s barely closed his eyes before he’s opening them again, grabbing his phone, and looking at Kent’s texts.

There’s a million things he wants to say and a million things he shouldn’t say. He buries his face in his pillow in frustration, then taps out the bare minimum, presses send, and puts his phone away to go to sleep for real.

**Tomas [10:56 pm]:** Thanks

 

         -------------  


Tomas is woken by the insistent buzzing of his phone on the bedside table. It takes him a moment to recognize the hotel room around him and realize that it’s not his alarm going off, but a phone call. When he sits up groggily and reaches for his phone, the painfully bright screen tells him two things: it’s 2:07 am, and Kent Parson is calling him.

Kent has never actually called him; he always texts, even when it would be more convenient to call. Tomas feels a flash of worry as he accepts the call and presses his phone to his ear. “Kent?”

“Heeey,” Kent says, long and drawn out and in a weird tone, and…

“Are you drunk?”

Kent lets out some sort of noise on the other side. Tomas isn’t sure if it’s a laugh or a confirmation or something else, but he takes it as a yes.

He lets out a sigh. “Kent, I’m in Providence, it’s the middle of the night here,” he says, exasperated. Did Kent go out with his teammates and decide it was a good idea to call Tomas? Oddly, though, it’s silent on Kent’s end, no music or laughter or voices.

“Providence,” Kent repeats. “Fucking… Fucking Jack Zimmermann.”

“What?” Tomas says.

Kent says something garbled that Tomas can’t make out, and then he says, more clearly, “You’re mad at me.”

“What?” Tomas repeats.

“I texted you,” Kent says. “’bout Jack. I tried real… real hard. ‘n all you said was _thanks_.” There’s something forlorn in his voice now, and what the _actual fuck is going on_? Tomas opens his mouth, but before he can respond, Kent is already speaking again. “An’ now you’re in Pros—Prodisence. To do bonding with Jack ‘cause you’re… and you shouldn’t, ‘cause he’s, and you’re, you’re French Canadian with him, and he’s great and you’re great, but you’re mad at me.”

Tomas feels completely lost, untethered from the conversation. He stares into the dark of his hotel room and tries to make sense of what’s happening. “I’m not… Kent, I’m not mad at you,” he says, even though he is, a little bit. “Where are you?”

“’m home. You’re not here,” Kent says miserably. “I’m all by myself.”

“Is that why you called me?”

There’s no answer for a little while. “You’re gonna leave,” Kent says finally. “Cause you’re in Pro-vi-dence.” He says the word carefully, avoids tripping over it again. “With Zimms. Jack. And he’s…” He mumbles something unintelligible. “Don’t,” he says suddenly, clearly. “Don’t leave—Don’t like Zimms more than me. I know I’m jus’ a—I’m really sorry. Really, really sorry. Don’t be mad, stop being mad at me.”

Tomas swallows with difficulty. What. _What_ is going on?

“’m sorry,” Kent says again, and then he hiccups loudly and says some more half-formed words that Tomas can’t decipher.

It’s the middle of the night, and he has no idea what to do with this entire conversation. He needs… needs to deal with how shitfaced Kent is, first of all. “Okay, okay, I’m not mad,” he says again. “I’m not mad at you. All right?”

Kent sniffs on the other side. “Okay,” he says, quiet and miserable. “It’s okay if you are. ‘Cause it’s my fault.”

“What’s your fault?” Tomas asks, but there’s no response. “I’m not mad,” he repeats. “You should sleep. How much did you drink?”

“Dunno,” Kent says. “I wasn’t gonna… wasn’t gonna have all of it. But then I did.”

“Yeah, sounds like it,” Tomas says wryly. “Do something for me?”

“Yeah,” Kent says.

“Go to the kitchen and get yourself a really big glass of water, and drink all of it,” Tomas says.

“Don’ wanna,” Kent says.

“You’re going to thank me in the morning,” Tomas says, and—yeah, he’s actually not so sure Kent’s going to thank him in the morning. If Kent remembers any of this, he’s probably going to wish Tomas had let him drink himself to death.

“’Kay.” There’s some shuffling in the background of the call, then the sound of the tap turning on.

He’s pretty sure Kent drops his phone on the counter at some point, because there’s a clatter and then some rustling noises and then he hears Kent’s quiet breathing again.

“Did you drink it?” Tomas says.

“Mm,” Kent says.

“Good. You should go to sleep.”

“Sleep,” Kent repeats.

“Yeah. Go to bed, Kent,” Tomas says. “Where’s Kit?”

“She’s in the… the bed. The bedroom,” Kent says after a moment’s pause.

“Good,” Tomas says again. “Go join her, okay?

“Kit,” Kent says. There’s the sound of a door closing in the background. “I love Kit,” he adds after a moment. “She’s so…” He trails off into mumbling again. Tomas can just about make out the word ‘soft’ somewhere in there.

“Yeah, good,” Tomas says. “You have Kit. She’s going to stay with you, okay? While you sleep.”

“’Kay,” Kent says.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Gonna sleep.”

“Good,” Tomas says. “ _Bonne nuit,_ Kent.”

“Mm,” Kent hums.

Tomas presses ‘end call’ and puts his phone face-down on the bedside table. He can still hear Kent’s voice when he lies down again, folding his hands under his head and staring into the darkness.

_Crisse_ , what does he _do_?

  
         -------------  


Jack Zimmermann’s house smells like apple pie. It’s spacious and comfortable, with an open-plan kitchen and a sprawling living room that holds a pool table, a wide sofa, and big windows. There are history books on the shelves, along with scattered pictures of Jack and his boyfriend, the Falconers with the Cup, a group shot of Samwell Men’s Hockey with Eric Bittle in his Captain’s sweater. Their home is tidy, but more obviously lived in than Kent’s apartment back in Vegas. Probably it’s because two people live here instead of just one, or because—And Tomas should really stop thinking about Kent. He’s here to do his job, to do the most high-profile assignment he’s had in his career, and it would be great if he could stop thinking about Kent and his panic attack and his drunk phone call and his laughter and his cowlick and his eyes.

“Yeah, the photographer is coming tomorrow,” Jack says as he gestures for Tomas to take a seat at the table. His accent is subtler than Tomas’, but it’s still fairly obvious, and Tomas finds it comforting. “The people from _Out_ said you wanted to stop by again on Monday?”

“Yes, I’ll write up a draft tomorrow and we can go over it, see if there’s anything you want to add or I need to clarify,” Tomas says as he sits down.

“Here’s your pie,” Eric Bittle (“Please call me Bitty, everyone does!”) says cheerfully, handing him a plate with a slice of apple pie that looks absolutely delicious. Tomas knows Jack’s boyfriend is semi-famous not just because he was the first out captain of an NCAA hockey team, but also as a baking vlogger. He’s even watched a vlog or two, but he’s never been much of a baker. Despite seeing Bitty’s bubbly vlog, he’s still a little surprised by the force of Bitty’s personality and the speed with which he’d convinced Tomas to have some pie.

“Thank you,” he says.

Bitty beams at him. “All right, honey, I’ll leave you to it,” he says to Jack, who’s taken a seat opposite Tomas at the table. Bitty rests his hands on Jack’s shoulders and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “Have fun!”

“Thanks, buddy,” Jack says, looking up at Bitty as he turns to go. Tomas can just about see the hearts in his eyes. It’s heart-warming, and a little enviable.

Bitty disappears into the hallway, and Jack turns to Tomas. “We can do the interview in French, if you like,” he offers. “If it’s easier.”

Tomas shakes his head as he sets up his phone to record. “Thanks, but then I have to translate it later. It’s fine. English might not be my first language, but I’m used to using it for work.” He takes a bite of pie—the rest of it will probably have to wait until after the interview, but the smell is incredibly tempting. “Wow, this is some good pie,” he says. “Is there maple syrup in there?”

Jack laughs, something like pride on his face. “I mentioned to Bitty that you’re from Quebec too.”

Tomas takes another bite because he can’t help himself, but then pushes the plate away a bit, grabs his pen and notepad. “I like to take notes as well as record, if that’s okay?”

“That’s fine,” Jack says, looking at him expectantly. “All right, ask away.”

Tomas glances down at his notepad, filled with his near-illegible and partially-French scribbles of questions that he prepared before he came here. “It’s been two years since you came out,” he says. “There’s been a lot of response in the press, from fans, from other players. Was it different than you expected?”

Jack thinks for a moment. “I’ve been surprised by the support,” he says. “My team knew before, and they were all supportive. But the fans—they’ve been great. There’s been some negative response, especially when we’re playing away games, but our own fans have really been positive and focused on my hockey and not on my sexuality, which is what I wanted. I think most of all, that’s what I… I’m a hockey player. And I have a boyfriend, and he’s a big part of my life, but that’s not what my professional life is about. I think our fans understand that, which has been important to me.” He pauses, deliberating.

When it’s been silent for a while, Tomas prompts, “Have other things surprised you?” because it doesn’t sound like Jack has said all he wants to say.

“Uh, I think…” Jack pauses again. “I thought beforehand that there’d be a negative response from some people, and there has been. You’ve written about it on your blog,” he says, and Tomas feels a little thrill at knowing that Jack Zimmermann reads his blog. He knows he’s fairly well-read in the hockey world, but his readership is mostly confined to sports commentators and hockey fans. Most players have other things to do, like actually be on the ice. “You know, the protests when I play in some cities, fans from other teams throwing makeup and stuff onto the ice—” A trend that had picked up worryingly quickly when Providence started going on roadies, the season after Jack came out. Tomas grimaces. “And that’s—I can deal with that. It’s the ambiguous stuff that’s hard.”

“What do you mean?” Tomas says, though he thinks he already knows.

“The—the hits that _seem_ more vicious, but it could just be a hard check,” Jack says. “It feels like it happens more. I _know_ it happens more, that I get more hits, it’s in the stats. But…” He shrugs. “Every check is just one check.”

“It makes you doubt whether you’re just reading into it,” Tomas says, because he’s all too familiar with that kind of ambiguity, like when he _knows_ the store’s security guard is following him, except he _could_ just be there by coincidence.

“Exactly.” Jack frowns at his hands, folded on the table in front of him. “I think that surprised me. I thought I’d know when I’m being targeted and when I’m not, but I don’t.”

Tomas nods, and they’re quiet for a moment or two. Then he asks a question about Jack’s decision to come out, and the conversation moves on.

“How did your bisexuality factor into your decision to attend Samwell University?” Tomas asks at one point. “It has a very LGBTQ-positive reputation, after all.”

Jack smiles. “Actually, I went to Samwell because it’s my mother’s alma mater,” he says. “I don’t think being bisexual factored in at all. Before I went to Samwell, I didn’t see it very much as part of my identity, or something to base decisions on. I knew it was part of me,” he clarifies. “But I mostly thought of it as a nuisance. Something that made it harder to play hockey, because I’d have to hide it.” He looks down at his hands again. “It’s one of the reasons I’m so glad I did decide to go to Samwell first. I think my experiences there have taught me a lot. There are things I wouldn’t have learned if I’d gone to the NHL when I was eighteen, or even two years later.”

“Can you give an example?” Tomas asks.

“I had teammates at Samwell,” Jack says, “who taught me I could be a hockey player and also myself. That I could have a team that accepted me, even though I like men. I have a close friend…” He smiles a little to himself. “He’s always been, well, very adamant that someone’s sexuality has nothing to do with how well they can play. But not just that—not just that it doesn’t affect how you play. That it’s something more than that, something to be… celebrated, I suppose. Not just tolerated, but embraced.”

“And you don’t think you might have learned that in the NHL?” Tomas asks.

“I don’t know.” Jack rubs at his chin, leaning forward a little as he considers the question. “Maybe, but there’s much more pressure in the NHL, much more media attention. I don’t know that I would’ve chosen to come out to a teammate, the way I did at Samwell. And in the NHL… It does differ a lot, between teams, what the locker room is like, how accepting people are. If I’d ended up on the wrong team at the wrong time…” He frowns in thought. “I was already struggling with anxiety then. Even more than I am now.”

Anxiety. Jack’s mentioned it a couple of times throughout the interview, and every time it makes Tomas think of Kent and his panic attack, his obvious distress during the phone call.

“So I think I would’ve experienced a lot more of that, if I’d felt pressured to stay in the closet,” Jack says, and several things click in Tomas’ head.

Anxiety because you’re not out. Kent’s panic attack. His exaggerated smiles when Tomas mentions his blog, or homophobia, or literally anything related to Tomas’ sexuality. His stone-faced silence—which Tomas had always read as indifference or even tacit approval—when his teammates throw around the word _faggot_. The way Kent goes still whenever Tomas comes too close, whenever their bodies accidentally brush together or Tomas isn’t sitting far enough away on the couch.

_A lot more anxiety, if I’d felt pressured to stay in the closet_.

Well, _shit_.

Jack has gone back to talking about Samwell and his supportive teammates. Tomas is glad he set up a recording, because he’s not really listening. He’s way too busy re-evaluating everything he thought he knew about Kent. How the fuck has he not seen this before? He literally thinks about LGBT athletes for a living, and yet he’d assumed right from the start that Kent was straight, and that homophobia was the only explanation for his erratic behavior. Which seems absurd in hindsight, because people who are homophobic enough that they flinch whenever Tomas comes within two feet of them, don’t usually invite him over for TV nights.

Kent had a panic attack when Tomas confronted him about his behavior. God, now he really feels like an idiot, because Kent’s refusal to discuss his _Out_ commission is a lot more understandable if it comes from self-protection and fear, rather than disinterest.

Shit, is Kent out to _anyone_? Is there anywhere he can be himself? Tomas knows he’s friends with Swoops, and Swoops is by far the most progressive player on the entire Aces team, so _maybe_. Kent hangs out with Scotty sometimes, and with Keller and Biryukov and Kimmy Vogt. With this new insight, Tomas doesn’t really understand that. They’re all people Tomas would flatly refuse to be friends with because of their willingness to spout various kinds of homophobia at inopportune moments. He’s pretty sure he’s overheard Birds try to explain to one of the D-men that he should keep his children away from Tomas because kids aren’t safe around homosexuals.

His stomach clenches at the thought of Kent overhearing that, and then having to go on the ice with those guys.

He’s always thought there was something performative, almost fake, about the way Kent would point out pretty girls on TV. He’d chalked it up to Kent asserting his heterosexuality because he was hanging out with Tomas. But it’s been years since there were last rumors about Kent having a girlfriend. Jack—who is talking about Bitty now, oblivious to Tomas’ distraction—might be bisexual, but Kent probably isn’t.

“So yeah, Bitty is definitely one of the reasons I’m very glad I made the decision to attend Samwell,” Jack says.

“Yeah,” Tomas says absently, and then he asks, “So what was it like, before you were out? To be closeted as a player?” He’s definitely asked a variation on that question earlier in the interview, but Jack doesn’t seem to notice or mind.

“Well, like I said, we told my team pretty fast,” he says. “Before that… It was hard, at times. I knew pretty soon that my teammates would be supportive. But they still assumed I was straight, you know? Sometimes someone would ask about my girlfriend. And I’m bisexual, so I _could_ have a girlfriend—but I was already dating Bitty at the time, and it was hard, that it didn’t seem to be a possibility. It seems like a small thing, but when it happened, it was… A reminder, I suppose. That my team didn’t know, that I didn’t know how they’d react if they knew, that I didn’t know what would happen if I wanted to come out publicly.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says. It feels like there’s a stone in his gut. “I… I think that’s all I need, for now,” he says. They’ve been talking for nearly an hour and a half, and though he wasn’t paying attention for the last little stretch, he knows he can write a great piece from everything Jack has told him. Now he just wants to leave and have a chance to recover from his epiphany.

“Okay,” Jack says. “So we’ll go over your draft on Monday?”

“Yeah,” Tomas says, reaching forward to turn off the recorder. “Same time?”

“That works for me,” Jack says.

“Okay.”

If Jack’s noticed his change in mood, he doesn’t comment. “Good luck writing it all up,” he says, when Tomas has packed up his things and Jack is leading him to the door.

“ _Merci_ ,” Tomas says. Then he steps out of Jack and Bitty’s apartment and is left to his own thoughts.

When he gets back to his hotel, he pulls out his phone and brings up yesterday’s texts from Kent.

_All you said was_ thanks _,_ Kent said last night.

Kent hasn’t texted him since then. Tomas wonders how much he remembers from last night’s phone call.

The thing is, he still remembers Kent’s blatant disinterest from last Wednesday, the way he’d quashed Tomas’ enthusiasm with a fake smile and a “ _Survivor?”_ He doesn’t want to get burned again. But he wants to reach out, because the afternoon’s realizations have put so much in a new light. Besides, he suspects Kent is stressing out right now about Tomas somehow liking Providence better than Vegas, or liking Jack better than Kent, and he wants to reassure him. More than anything, he just wants Kent to know he’s got a friend in Tomas, because God knows Kent needs a friend he can talk to.

Besides, he _wants_ to talk to Kent. The way his heart skips when his phone lights up with a text from Kent—which has been going on for months now—is not helpful or productive or even really pleasant, but it’s there.

He taps the side of his phone for another moment, hesitant, but once he starts typing, it’s a while before he stops.

**Tomas [4:23 pm]:** Sorry, long day yesterday and today

**Tomas [4:24 pm]:** Don’t worry about last Wednesday, we’re good

**Tomas [4:24 pm]:** Interview w/ Zimmermann went well, lots of interesting stuff

**Tomas [4:25 pm]:** Going to write it up tomorrow and talk to him again on Monday to finish it off

**Tomas [4:25 pm]:** You having a good weekend?

He winces a little at the last text. He can only guess at the horrendous hangover Kent must have this morning, and he suspects Kent wasn’t enjoying himself even before that. But he doesn’t want to bring up Kent’s drunk phone call over text.

It takes some effort to put his phone away and pull up his laptop so he can start working on his piece for _Out_. By the time he’s had dinner, finished up the first segment of his article, and gets into bed, Kent hasn’t texted back.

  
         -------------

 

**Robbbbbbie** @LocalTransGuy · 37m

Funny story.

 

**Robbbbbbie** @LocalTransGuy · 36m

So I’m constantly on the edge of being broke, which is why I probably should’ve checked my balance before shopping today. 1/?

|

**Robbbbbbie** @LocalTransGuy · 36m

I’m in line at Walmart with like 30 bucks worth of groceries and a value pack of boxer briefs and my card gets declined. So I panic, because a) this is embarrassing and b) I didn’t bring another card and c) I have no cash on me and d) I want to eat. 2/?

|

**Robbbbbbie** @LocalTransGuy · 34m

And then the person behind me goes “Hey, want me to get that for you?” so I look over, and it’s this kinda haggard-looking blond guy wearing sunglasses who looks kinda familiar. Obviously I protest because, like, it was 30 bucks, and can I accept that from a stranger? 3/?

|

**Robbbbbbie** @LocalTransGuy · 33m

But he insists and he pays for me. I hang around until he’s paid for his own stuff and thank him and say I can pay him back if he’ll just give me his details. He says I don’t need to and it’s no problem. So I’m like “Okay, well, thanks so much. I’m Robbie by the way.” 4/?

|

**Robbbbbbie** @LocalTransGuy · 31m

And he says, “Nice to meet you, I’m Kent.” 5/?

|

**Robbbbbbie** @LocalTransGuy · 30m

Which is when I realize why he looked so damn familiar. So anyway, my dinner is on Kent Parson tonight, apparently. 6/6

  
         -------------  
  


Kent still hasn’t texted when Tomas parks his jeep under Kent’s apartment building the next Wednesday night. They usually confirm that Tomas is coming over, but they haven’t missed a TV night since May except when Tomas was in Trois-Rivières, and he’s decided to risk it. Kent’s probably expecting him. Tomas could have texted to confirm, but he hasn’t heard from Kent since his drunk phone call, despite texting him on Saturday and last night when he made it back to Vegas, and he doesn’t want to keep being the first to reach out.

All the same, his nerves are threatening to get the best of him as he walks down the hallway to Kent’s front door. He’s not all that sure that Kent wants to see him. Surely he would’ve texted something back, if he wanted to talk.

He steels himself and rings the doorbell. It’s quiet for what feels like longer than usual, but then Kent opens the door.

“Hey,” he says. He looks neutral, maybe even cheerful. If he’s surprised to see Tomas, he’s hiding it well. “Come in,” Kent continues, stepping back to let Tomas through.

They’re on the couch a minute later, catching the last little stretch of some talk show that’s on before _Survivor_ this week. Kent is in his usual spot on the other side of the couch, though it looks like he’s tucked even more tightly against the armrest than usual. He’s pulled his legs up on the couch, making himself look smaller than he is.

He relaxes a little when the show begins. “Do you think we’re going to finally get rid of André?” he says.

“ _Crisse_ , I hope so. He should’ve been out weeks ago,” Tomas says. He reaches for his drink.

Kent shoots him a look that seems almost grateful. “He definitely should’ve been out before Annie,” he says. “Honestly, I thought he was going to be kicked off in that episode where… what was her name, Levinia? Where she got kicked off after she had that fight with that other guy in her tribe.”

“I think the producers wanted to keep André for as long as they could because he’s an asshole and assholes drive up the ratings,” Tomas says.

“Oh my god _stop_ ,” Kent says. Tomas grins. It’s easy to set Kent off on this particular argument. “Stop reminding me of the producers. Everything we’re seeing is real and it’s not staged for ratings.”

“I’m just saying, everyone hated him, so I think they would’ve voted him off if the producers hadn’t—”

“Nooo,” Kent says.

Tomas laughs at him. “All right, all right,” he says.

It feels like they’re back to normal, and Tomas is half tempted to leave it like this. Bringing up Kent’s panic attack or his drunk phone call is sure to freak Kent out again, and he doesn’t want to do that. But Kent is already hurting—has been hurting for months, maybe years. Tomas just wants him to know he can talk to him. 

André gets eliminated at the end of the episode. “Finally!” Kent says. “Damn, that was a long time coming.” He turns off the TV when the “Next time on _Survivor_ ” segment begins.

Tomas puts down his glass and makes a decision. He turns a little so it’s easier to look at Kent. They’re still far apart, as they always are, and he’s almost tempted to move closer. Kent wouldn’t want him to, so he doesn’t. “So you called me last weekend when you were drunk,” he says.

Kent goes pale really fast, and Tomas almost thinks he’s going to have another panic attack. “ _Shit_ ,” he says, his voice half an octave above its normal pitch, eyes wide in realization. “Oh god, I did, didn’t I? I—Fuck, I don’t even—Did I—I’m really sorry,” he rambles. He rakes a hand through his hair, then puts it back in his lap, wringing his hands together.

Tomas’ fingers twitch against his thigh; he wants to reach out and touch Kent just to ground him. But he’s too far away for that, not to mention it’s a bad idea. “It’s fine,” he says instead, the most reassurance he knows how to give. “You seemed upset. And also really drunk.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent says again. “I didn’t mean—Oh my god. I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” Tomas says. It’s clear Kent doesn’t remember much of it, and Tomas thinks the panic in his voice is probably because he’s imagining what he might’ve said. “You don’t need to apologize. I just—you seemed upset,” he repeats. “Is everything okay?” It has to be obvious he’s asking about the panic attack last week, too.

“I—Yeah, of course,” Kent says. He makes a valiant attempt at a smile. It would fool the cameras, but Tomas never really bought those smiles, and he buys them even less now that he has a pretty good idea that there’s something far darker underneath.

Damnit, he just wants Kent to be okay. If any of Tomas’ suspicions are true—and at this point, he’s pretty sure he’s right—then Kent really, really needs to talk to someone, and Tomas is the only candidate. But he can’t make Kent tell him anything against his will.

Kent looks away, smile falling off his face to be replaced by uncertainty, and Tomas’ stomach clenches.

Maybe he’s going about this wrong. Maybe it’s not about winning Kent’s trust, but about… about showing Kent that he trusts _him_.

He’s always gone on his initial assumptions—that Kent doesn’t want to hear about Tomas’ work, that Kent is uncomfortable with the fact that Tomas is gay, that Kent just wants to watch TV and talk about reality stars rather than talk about anything real. But he doesn’t believe any of those things anymore.

So maybe if he wants Kent to open up, he should do it first.

At some point while he was thinking, Kent has started talking again. He’s switched to French, and Tomas wonders if it’s because he thinks he’ll do better placating Tomas in his native language. “ _…So I’m really sorry,_ ” he’s saying. “ _And I don’t, uh, I don’t really know what I said, but it was probably nothing, just stuff I said because I was drunk, and I’m not drunk now so I’m totally fine, and I—_ ”

“ _Can I tell you something_?” Tomas interrupts.

“Uh,” Kent says, looking puzzled. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

Tomas reaches for his beer bottle and plucks at the label. “ _So I, uh, I went to high school in Trois-Rivières,_ ” he says.

Kent seems confused at the non-sequitur, but he calms down a little. “ _Okay,”_ he says. He turns so his knees are against the back of the couch, his wrists resting on top of them. He’s still fidgeting with the seam of his jeans, but some of the tension has bled out of him.

“ _It was—There were maybe a dozen other Black kids in the entire school. Most of them weren’t as dark-skinned as me.”_ Tomas doesn’t look at Kent. He tears a tiny strip off the bottle label and absently puts it on the couch’s armrest before carefully tearing off another. “ _It was pretty rough sometimes. I guess I didn’t really get bullied, and I made some friends pretty quick. There were kids who were mean about it, though. I don’t think my parents really got it. Well, maybe my dad did—he grew up Black in Quebec, too. But he never said much about it. And my mom didn’t move to Canada until she was sixteen, so she didn’t really have the experience of growing up here—well, there, I guess. I mean, she went to high school in Quebec, the last two years, but it was different for her since she’d just immigrated._ ”

When Tomas glances over, Kent still looks nonplussed, but he nods when there’s a little pause in what is quickly shaping up to be a monologue.

“ _I had a couple of teachers who—I think they had lower expectations of me. They always seemed surprised when I did well in class. I knew it was because I’m Black.”_ He tears another strip off the label and rolls it into a ball between his thumb and index finger. _“Which was frustrating, and the other kids were definitely worse in high school than in elementary, so it wasn’t the easiest transition.”_ He hesitates, but after a second, he continues, “ _Then I got a crush on a classmate_.”

Kent sucks in a breath beside him, and Tomas has to fight not to look at him because he knows he’s going to lose his nerve if he does. He stares resolutely down at the bottle in his hand instead. “ _It was a boy, obviously. I don’t even remember his name, but he was—_ ” He cuts himself off before he can say _he was blond._ “ _He was… I don’t know. Popular. Tall for a thirteen-year-old. Probably had acne_.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “ _I’d never really had a crush before. I knew what being gay was, you know. But I’d never really heard anything positive about gay guys or anything. So it was…”_ He hesitates, tears another strip off the label. “ _It was pretty scary. It felt like it was bad. I’d definitely heard people say bad stuff about it. So… I don’t know. I never really had the guts to do anything about it. I got over him eventually._ ”

Beside him, Kent is silent. Tomas takes a deep breath and keeps going. “ _I was hoping I’d just fall in love with girls, afterwards. That’s what everybody else did, so I thought maybe it was just a one-off, something that happened to everyone. Then I got another crush and it was a boy again, and then again after that. And even when I wasn’t crushing on anyone, I was just more interested in boys. That’s who I noticed. On TV, or at school, or on the street. So, yeah. I figured I was gay_.”

He chances a glance at Kent. Kent is looking away. He’s gone so pale his skin looks almost translucent, and he’s biting his lip hard enough that it looks like it hurts.

Tomas swallows. He wants to stop, give Kent a break, but this shit is actually not that easy to talk about, and if he stops, he’ll never start up again. “ _I uh. I had my first kiss when I was sixteen,_ ” he says. “ _I remember his name, at least. Felix. He sat next to me in Chemistry_.” He chuckles ruefully. “ _I mean, first he just sat next to me in Chemistry, and then we became friends, and then he invited me over to his house while his parents were out and he kissed me while we watched a movie_.” He takes a deep breath. “ _Then the next day he had a gay panic and told everyone at school I’d tried to kiss him and I was queer. So, you know. That sucked_.”

_Sucked_ is the understatement of the century. But Kent, already so deeply closeted he’s halfway to Narnia, probably doesn’t need to know about all the stuff his classmates had said. Or how they’d emptied his backpack in the snow. Or how a couple of them had cornered him in the bathroom and threatened to dunk his head in the toilet.

He wipes some condensation off the bottom of his beer bottle. Kent doesn’t say anything, and Tomas doesn’t look at him. After he’s taken a sip, he goes on, “ _I didn’t really have a chance with anyone else at high school, after that. So I didn’t have my first boyfriend ‘till I was at Carleton. Ottawa_ ,” he adds, because he doesn’t think he’s ever told Kent where he’d gone to college. “ _He was cute. His name was Sameer, and he was in journalism, too. It was… He wasn’t out, and I was, so it was a bit complicated sometimes, but it worked out. Or, well, it worked out until it didn’t, you know._ ”

Or maybe Kent doesn’t know. Has he ever dated? With women, with men, with anyone? He glances over at Kent again. Kent looks… still pale as a ghost, and exhausted, and wrung-out. He should stop.

“ _Anyway,_ ” he says, clearing his throat a bit awkwardly. “ _I just… wanted to tell you that_.”

There’s a long silence. Kent still isn’t looking at him. He’s sitting very, very still, staring at the black screen of the TV. Finally, he swallows visibly. “Thanks,” he says. His voice is hoarse. “You—Thanks. For… For that.” He still isn’t looking at Tomas as he digs his teeth into his lower lip hard. “I—I’m sorry, I need—Can you please—Please leave.”

Tomas feels—he doesn’t know. Disappointed? Frustrated? Sad? “Are you…” he says.

“Please,” Kent says, barely above a whisper. He turns his head but doesn’t quite meet Tomas’ eyes, looking over his shoulder instead. “I’m sorry. It isn’t because—because you’re… I just… Please.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says, because what else can he do? “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll text you, okay?”

Kent nods jerkily. Tomas stands up. He turns back when he’s almost at the hallway. Kent has gone back to staring at the blank TV. One of his hands is gripping the armrest so tight his knuckles have gone white.

Tomas swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says before he can stop himself. He doesn’t know what for.

“Me too,” Kent mumbles.

When the door clicks shut behind him, Tomas kind of wants to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Je pense pas" = I don't think... (for those who, like me, took high school French, yes it would be "je ne pense pas", but people from Quebec like to take shortcuts)  
> "C'est okay" = it's okay  
> "Tu vas bien" = you're okay, you'll be fine  
> "Parfait" = Perfect  
> "J'suis désolé" = I'm sorry  
> "Bonne nuit" = goodnight 
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).
> 
> If you leave me a comment, I'll love you forever. (Yes, even if it's just keysmashing.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up, Tomas witnessed a panic attack, did an illuminating interview, got a clue, and took a leap. This week: Moments.
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work.

Kent wakes up sore all over, and the season hasn’t even started yet. It’s probably because of last night. He goes for a run and tries not to think about anything.

  
         -------------  


**Tomas [10:04 am]:** You okay?

  
         -------------  


The thing is, in a way, he’s always known. He’s just never really let himself think about it, and now he can’t stop.

  
         -------------  


“Hey, cap!” Scotty’s voice booms across the ice just as Kent skates on, and Kent only just manages not to flinch. “Rough night? You’re not nervous about training camp, are you?”

“What?” Kent says. He doesn’t want to talk to Scotty. He just wants to get through his last solo ice time before tomorrow’s start of camp in peace.

“You look like you were up all night,” Scotty says, sending up a spray of ice as he comes to a halt next to Kent.

Kent laughs, and it sounds kind of fake to him, but Scotty doesn’t seem to notice. “Nah,” he says. “I’m fine. Just, you know.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Scotty says. He waggles his eyebrows. “I see. Nice.” He holds out his gloved hand, and Kent gives him a fist bump.

  
         -------------  


He should text Tomas back. He’s been thinking about him all day, anyway, so it shouldn’t be so hard.

  
         -------------  


When he gets home from training, he turns on the TV and the first thing he sees is a shirtless guy in a commercial for deodorant. He switches it off again and pretends his heart isn’t beating twice as fast as it was a minute ago.

Tomas’ text is the first thing he sees when he unlocks his phone. It feels like he’s been staring at it since he first got it this morning. He starts typing, then deletes it, then tries again and again and again.

_~~im fine~~ _

_~~im not ok~~ _

_~~help~~ _

_~~why did u tell me all that stuff~~ _

_~~im ok~~ _

_~~im sorry for making you leave~~ _

_~~why cant i stop thinking about you~~ _

_~~i think i might be~~ _

He deletes all of them.

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 14m

Everything is ready for tomorrow’s fitness test and media frenzy!

[PHOTO]

  
         -------------  


Kent plays Candy Crush for three hours even though that game stopped being cool years ago. _Even when I wasn’t crushing on anyone, I was just more interested in boys_ , Tomas had said. Tomas had sat on the other side of the couch and told him all this private stuff, fidgeting with the bottle of beer in his hand, not looking at Kent. And then Kent had sent him away, because… because…

He bites his lip so hard he can taste blood. He wishes Tomas were here. He wouldn’t even have to say anything. Or do anything other than sit there. It’s not like Kent has ever let him get close enough to touch, anyway.

He thinks maybe he regrets that.

  
         -------------  


**Tomas [8:45 pm]:** I hope you’re okay

  
         -------------  


He stares at the second text for a long time, too.

  
         -------------  


**Kent [11:56 pm]:** Thank you

  
         -------------  


He sleeps even less the next night. This time it’s Swoops who notices.

“You all right?” he asks when they’re both watching a couple of rookies do fitness tests.

“Yeah,” Kent says.

“You look tired,” Swoops says.

“Just didn’t sleep well,” Kent says.

Swoops looks at him for a moment. “Okay,” he says. “Wanna do cards tonight, after all the media nonsense?”

He does want to. But he also knows if he spends a whole evening with Swoops, he’s not going to get just one ‘how are you’ and he’s not sure how long he can keep pretending that he’s fine. “Nah,” he says. “Sorry, man. Gonna have an early night.”

“Okay,” Swoops says easily, and Kent doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he doesn’t push.

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 9h

“It’s great to be back. I think everyone’s excited to finally get on the ice again,” @vitvit_oman says.

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 7h

Severs says Parson, Scott and Newton will be linemates at the start of camp, but “nothing is set in stone”.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 6h

@kvparson90 says: “The start of camp is always one of my favorite times of the year.”

  
         -------------  


Saturday is… better, maybe. Practice is split into two groups, and he tries hard to focus on the rookies on the ice with them, to figure out what they’ll need to work on if they end up making the team.

After practice, he goes home and eats lots of protein and watches TV and notices how he notices the hot guys and still manages to leave it on for fifteen minutes before he can’t take it anymore.

  
         -------------  


Sunday is worse because he wakes up from a dream where he was—

He’s hard, and he gives in and jerks off, but his usual strategy of _don’t think about anything and especially don’t think about anyone_ doesn’t work. Instead the images from his dream are burned into his brain. He can still feel strong hands on his chest, sliding into his hair, curling around his dick. He can feel stubble against his lips, then the press of the floor against his knees, someone else’s arousal on his tongue.

It doesn’t take him long at all to come, and it takes even less time after that before he’s hyperventilating in the shower.

  
         -------------  


They’re only putting rookies and roster hopefuls on the ice for the first pre-season game, so Kent hangs around the apartment and spams the Aces group chat with pictures of Kit while the young guns are on the ice in the morning. He reads Tomas’ latest blog post, which is about his expectations for the Habs this season. The sense of relief when the newest article isn’t about homophobia is even stronger than usual. He tries to ignore it like he always does, but it’s harder now than it was before, because now he’s thinking about the fact that he’s—

After he finishes reading, it takes him a long time to realize he’s just staring at Tomas’ picture, next to his bio on the blog.

  
         -------------  


Tomas texts him while he’s making lunch.

**Tomas [1:42 pm]:** Word has it that Misha Nikolaev got himself a lower body injury in practice this morning

He half expected Tomas would maybe stop texting. Kent had sent him out the door three days ago without much of an explanation. Though maybe Tomas knew, maybe that was why he’d told him all that stuff about—

He can’t deal with that idea. Couldn’t deal with it while Tomas was telling him all that, either. He grabs his headphones and turns the music up way louder than he should while he finishes making food.

As he eats, he tries to compose a reply, which takes him ten times as long as it usually does.

**Kent [2:04 pm]:** damn poor schooners

**Kent [2:07 pm]:** hows their backup?

**Tomas [2:08 pm]:** Decent, but can’t replace their 9m goalie

**Kent [2:09 pm]:** haha yeh

**Tomas [2:09 pm]:** He’ll probably miss the entire pre-season

**Tomas [2:09 pm]:** Let’s hope for them that he’s back before the regular

**Kent [2:15 pm]:** yeah

**Kent [2:16 pm]:** and lets hope for us that hes not lol

  
         -------------  


**Arizona Coyotes** @ArizonaCoyotes · 5h

We’re excited for our first pre-season game! #CoyotesVsAces

|

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 5h

Bring it, ‘yotes. #CoyotesVsAces

|

**Arizona Coyotes** @ArizonaCoyotes · 5h

Oh, we’re bringing it. #CoyotesVsAces

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 10m

Final score: Coyotes 4, Aces 2 #CoyotesVsAces #TheyBroughtIt

  
         -------------  


He’s been expecting to run into Tomas since Friday, but throughout all the media frenzy of the first weekend of training camp, all he’s seen is the Aces’ other PR writer and the intern. It’s not surprising that Tomas is finally around after practice on Monday. But Kent still almost has a heart attack when he sees him in the locker room.

Tomas talks to Sims and Tanner and Dunker, and then to the young goalie that’s in camp on a PTO, so he’s apparently just going to focus on the Aces goalie situation for now. He doesn’t really acknowledge Kent any more than he acknowledges any of the dozen other players who are getting changed. Kent knows that’s his fault, because he’s always gone out of his way to not let his teammates know that Tomas is anything other than a distant colleague to him. He’s always felt vaguely guilty about that, because Tomas is great, and Kent shouldn’t let his teammates stop him from being his friend. But he knows what some of the team would say, if they knew he hangs out with someone who’s gay. Maybe it’d even make them suspicious that Kent is—like that. Maybe that’s why he’s been avoiding it all along.

When he’s done with practice, Sims and Tower try to convince him to have lunch with the rest of the group, but he turns them down. It’s not the regular season and everything in camp is chaotic as it is, so nobody thinks twice about it except Swoops, who sends him a worried look. Back in his car, he pulls out his phone and doesn’t really think it through before he texts Tomas.

**Kent [1:14 pm]:** sorry

**Tomas [1:18 pm]:** What about?

**Kent [1:24 pm]:** idk

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

There are @Damian_Scott days left until our home opener!

|

**Scotty** @Damian_Scott · 2h

That’s me, number 14!! Can’t wait to get back on the ice for real

  
         -------------  


Kent isn’t playing the second pre-season game either, so when the Young Aces teams are back at practice for the first time on Tuesday afternoon, there’s nothing to prevent him from guest-coaching the first session.

He’s got the girls doing suicides when he spots Tomas over by the side of the rink. He’s accompanied by a photographer from PR who’s already taking pictures of the skating children.

“Hey,” Kent says, when he’s skated over to the side without really making the decision to do so.

“PR wants me to do a piece on your youth coaching,” Tomas says. He looks—apologetic, maybe. Cautious. “I was going to attend your practices this week and next, talk to some of the kids, do an interview with you next week. If that’s okay?”

“I—Yeah, of course,” Kent says. He doesn’t think he has much of a real choice in the matter, anyway.

Tomas smiles at him, and it makes Kent feel warm all over, which is—Is that a new feeling, or has it been like that all along?

“Don’t you have to cover the game?” he asks.

“Well, it’s not until tonight,” Tomas says, “So I’ve got some time in between. They don’t want the piece published ‘till the regular season is underway, but I figured I should catch you at practice before you’re actually expected to play any games.”

“Right, yeah,” Kent says. “Do you need—Should I go back to coaching?”

“Yeah, just do whatever you normally do,” Tomas says, as if Kent has any idea what’s normal since his life has been in freefall for a week.

“Okay,” he says.

  
         -------------  


He makes dinner when he gets home. He still has an hour to kill before he can watch the Aces game, and there are re-runs of an old Big Brother season on when he takes his food to the couch. He keeps watching even when he finds himself noticing the guys and it’s—kind of nice, even if he has to keep taking really deep breaths and letting them out slowly so he doesn’t freak out.

When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he finds himself hoping that it’s Tomas, and he feels his heartbeat pick up when it is.

**Tomas [7:34 pm]:** Did you see the Aeros finally signed Kavikoff?

He keeps looking at his screen as a couple more messages come through.

**Tomas [7:34 pm]:** Better late than never I guess

**Tomas [7:34 pm]:** Kind of a shitty contract though

**Tomas [7:35 pm]:** But he was too young for arbitration so I guess it was this or nothing

**Kent [7:36 pm]:** what aav did he get

**Tomas [7:36 pm]:** 1.3m

**Kent [7:37 pm]:** ouch

He waits for another text from Tomas, but it doesn’t come, and he’s irrationally disappointed by that.

When he goes back to watching Big Brother, it takes him a couple of minutes to realize he’s comparing the guys to Tomas. He turns off the TV after all.

  
         -------------  


He’s been in bed for an hour and he’s still awake. He’s jittery and his thoughts keep skipping all over the place, never staying anywhere long enough for him to pin down what he’s thinking.

All he needs is to think of something calm, quiet, peaceful. Talking to his sister about her shitty roommate. Or a hug from Swoops, maybe. Or watching TV with Tomas. Making jokes about weird people on reality shows. Tomas laughing even though Kent’s jokes aren’t all that funny.

He bets Tomas would give really good hugs too. Maybe even better than Swoops.

It takes him a couple of minutes—until he really is almost asleep—to realize his fantasy has taken him to where he’s curled up against Tomas on the couch, Tomas’ arms around him, his skin warm against Kent’s own.

He feels his eyes snap open again as the image disappears. He’s suddenly pretty sure that this isn’t the first time he’s pictured this as he tried to fall asleep. Then he lets himself think about the way he feels when Tomas texts him and the way he feels when Tomas smiles and the way he feels when Tomas does anything ever, and he rolls over and buries his face into his pillow until he can barely breathe and he feels dizzy and he can no longer think.

  
         -------------  


**Tomas [2:33 pm]:** Usual time tonight?

**Kent [3:15 pm]:** ok

  
         -------------  


It's just past 5:30 pm and Tomas will be arriving in an hour or two. Kent should tidy the apartment. He should at least get his laundry off the couch and take out the overflowing trash.

He opens a fresh bottle of bourbon instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Kent.
> 
> Since this week's chapter was shorter than usual (which hopefully made sense as a reading experience), I figured this is a good moment to also share this fic's accompanying playlist. It's now the second work in this series; you can also listen on Spotify [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/ohrecklessabandon/playlist/5c0c9TgTOOweD8ocy2d9sn?si=LkB4aEGnRJudCnfCHYGqdg). 
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).
> 
> If you leave me a comment, I'll love you forever. (Yes, even if it's just keysmashing.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up, Kent had some things he needed to admit to himself, the preseason started up, and Kent decided bourbon was the answer to his problems. This week: alcohol, interviews, and breakthroughs.
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

Tomas isn’t really sure what to expect when he rings Kent’s doorbell, but this isn’t it.

Kent’s face is flushed when he opens the door. He grins brightly at Tomas. “He-ey,” he says, and something in his voice reminds Tomas of that one phone call in Providence, even though Kent’s mood then was the polar opposite of this.

“Have you been drinking?” he says, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

“I have really good bourbon,” Kent says, his grin widening. He turns, but not quite far enough, so he almost stumbles into a wall. Okay. So he has good whiskey and he clearly had a lot of it. “You want some?”

“No, thanks,” Tomas says, following Kent to the living room.

Kent flings himself onto the couch on his back. There is, indeed, a bottle of Wild Turkey Tradition on the coffee table that looks close to empty. The TV is on, playing an old season of _MasterChef_.

“It’s like,” Kent says, right when Tomas turns to go to the kitchen and grab himself a drink. He halts beside the couch and looks down at where Kent is sprawled across most of the cushions. Kent goes on, “Arianna was way better at the mystery box challenge. But now she’s doing a dessert.” He giggles at the ceiling.

Tomas isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “I’m going to get a beer,” he says.

“That’s such… such a good idea,” Kent says. “You have the best ideas. It’s great.”

“Okay,” Tomas says, trying valiantly to ignore the way his heartbeat picks up at the compliment.

When he gets back with his drink, Kent is sitting up and has poured himself another glass of bourbon. That seems like a spectacularly bad idea, but Tomas doesn’t say anything.

The one positive is that Kent isn’t quite as tightly tucked into his corner of the couch as he usually is. He’s not exactly close to Tomas, but he takes up more space, one arm stretched out over the back of the couch in Tomas’ direction.

“Is this the right channel?” Tomas says, gesturing at the TV. _MasterChef_ isn’t what’s usually on before _Survivor._

Kent stares at him for a few seconds and then he bursts into giggles again. Tomas just ends up looking at him helplessly. It’s weird enough to be hanging out with someone who’s drunk when Tomas himself is sober. It’s even weirder when he expected to find Kent stressed out or upset.

“It’s not—it’s not the right one,” Kent eventually says through his giggles.

“ _Crisse de câlisse_ ,” Tomas grumbles. “Give me the remote.”

Kent does so after a moment, and Tomas finds the right channel, where _Survivor_ ’s opening reel is just beginning to play.

It takes about thirty seconds for Kent to get distracted, when one of the seven remaining contestants shows up on the screen. “She’s like, there was this girl in my high school,” Kent says. “In—when I was in Quebec. I played in the Q.”

“I know that, Kent,” Tomas says, a little exasperated and a little amused.

“Right, cause you’re like… you know stuff,” Kent says. “And there—there was this girl. And she got into a fight with another girl and one of them fell down the stairs. But not like really from the top, just a few steps.” He frowns in thought, as if trying to remember whether he had a point, but he turns back to the TV without saying anything else.

“ _Il est un beau cave_ ,” Tomas mutters to himself.

“You sound so nice in French,” Kent says, thereby proving that he’s not really listening to what Tomas was saying. And also giving Tomas another heart attack, because Kent never compliments him like this.

On screen, the castaways are doing a balancing challenge, but it’s not long before one of them falls off their log and into the water. Kent, predictably, giggles at them. “I could do that,” he says through his laughter.

“Uh, not right now, you couldn’t,” Tomas says with a chuckle.

“But I’m, I have to stand on knives,” Kent says. “On frozen… frozen water. Lots of _balance_.”

“Right,” Tomas says. “Well, maybe you should sign up for the next season. Anyway, I think Karen is going to win this one.”

The other contestants fall off one by one until it is just Karen left, and Kent looks over at Tomas in awe. “You were right,” he says. “You’re so smart. Like that thing you wrote.”

Tomas is never going to get over all of this praise. “What thing?” he says.

“That… the thing. About, uh, the Habs. And how Carey Price is gonna be, like, important this season.”

“You… you read that article,” Tomas says.

Kent leans in toward him just a bit. “I read your blog all the time,” he says earnestly, which blows Tomas’ mind. Kent reads his blog? Kent barely lets him _mention_ his blog without acting like he wants to sink through the floor.

“I thought you didn’t like it,” Tomas says, still dazed.

“It’s very good,” Kent tells him. He pulls a face. “’cept some of the stuff. But then I gotta read it anyway ‘cause you’re my friend.”

“Oh,” Tomas says. His face feels warm. “That’s…” He trails off, completely unsure how to finish that sentence. He’s already lost Kent’s attention, anyway. Kent is just kind of tipping his head from side to side now, probably because it’s swimming from how drunk he is. Then he leans forward and knocks back half his glass. “Is that a good idea?” Tomas says.

“Mm,” Kent hums. “I was really nervous.” He giggles. “Now I’m not.”

Tomas’ stomach clenches at the thought that Kent was nervous enough about seeing him that it literally drove him to drink. “I don’t want you to be nervous,” he says.

“I know. You’re nice,” Kent says.

Okay, this is too much. It’s… He wasn’t going to make assumptions about what Kent thinks of him. Because even if Kent’s cageyness at Tomas’ sexuality is because he’s closeted himself, that doesn’t mean he’s into Tomas. Tomas has to be Kent’s friend first. He can’t let himself get distracted, hoping for Kent to return his feelings. It’s just that Kent is looking at him now, a dopey, drunk grin on his face, having just given him the fourth compliment in half an hour.

Tomas tries to focus back on the show, but it’s not long before Kent is back to chattering at him: stories about people Tomas doesn’t know, comments on the show that lead to more half-finished stories. By the end of the episode, Tomas has no idea what happened during most of it. The channel switches to a crime procedural. Kent giggles at the cold open, even though it’s about murder, and then he starts an apparently unprompted monologue about Swoops.

“We go to basketball games,” he says, after he’s already enumerated many of Swoops’ apparent best qualities. “Even though the team always loses. But it’s really fun. He’s great, you know,” Kent continues. “He’s my best friend. He gives really good hugs.”

“Okay,” Tomas says, trying really hard not to be jealous of Jeff Troy.

“His wife is pregnant,” Kent says, which Tomas knows because literally the entire world knows, that’s how proud Jeff is. “And they’re gonna have such a good baby because it’s Swoops’. It’s gonna be the best baby with the best dad. Maybe they’ll let me be the godfather. But that would be weird because the godfather has to do, like…” He waves his hands around. “The spiritual well-being of the baby. That’s what it says online, and I’m, like, maybe an atheist? Or the other one.”

“Agnostic?” Tomas says.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Like I think maybe there’s a god. But also maybe not.”

“Sounds agnostic to me,” Tomas says.

“So I can’t be, like, the godfather or I’d be a shitty one. And Swoops can’t have a baby with a shitty godfather.”

“Nobody does the spiritual stuff anymore, anyway,” Tomas says. “You can do other stuff for the kid.”

Kent sniffs, looking much less cheery all of a sudden. “Nah,” he mumbles. “’m not that great.”

“What are you talking about?” Tomas says.

“Dunno,” Kent says. “I just fuck stuff up.” He shrugs, looking a little like he might cry. Tomas was not prepared for how fast Kent could go from happy, giggly drunk to the morose version that he had on the phone two weeks ago.

“No, you’re great,” he says. “You’re also not having any more of that,” he adds, when Kent leans forward and reaches for the bottle.

“I called you,” Kent says miserably as he sits back again. “I wasn’t gonna. I turned off my phone so I wouldn’t. Guess I turned it back on again. And before that, I—” His mouth twitches down. “I didn’t say anything. About the thing.”

“What thing?” Tomas asks, even though he maybe shouldn’t. He doesn’t think Kent would be telling him this if he were sober.

“The thing for the magazine,” Kent says. He pulls his feet onto the couch and mumbles into his knees, “’Cause I didn’t know what to say and I wasn’t—wasn’t feeling okay. But you were—you were great and you deserved it and I made you sad ‘cause I didn’t say so.”

“Oh,” Tomas says. “Kent… It’s okay.”

“No,” Kent mumbles.

They’re halfway through the crime procedural which neither of them are watching. “You should sleep,” Tomas says, even though it’s barely 9:30. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. “’m tired.” He closes his eyes.

“Not here,” Tomas says. He switches off the TV and gets up to go to the kitchen. When he comes back with a glass of water, Kent is still slumped against the couch, but he opens his eyes when Tomas says his name. “Drink this.”

Kent stares at the glass of water for a couple of seconds, but then he reaches out and takes it. “You’re so nice to me,” he says.

“Yeah, well. That’s what friends do,” Tomas says, because heaven knows he needs some boundaries right now.

Kent drinks the glass of water in one go. Hopefully it’ll stave off some of the inevitable hangover.

“Come on,” Tomas says, once Kent’s handed him the glass and he’s put it on the coffee table. Kent stands up a little unsteadily. He almost stumbles over his feet when he’s halfway to his bedroom, and Tomas doesn’t think it through before he puts a hand on Kent’s shoulder to steady him.

“Oh,” Kent says quietly, almost just an exhale, and Tomas can feel him shiver.

“Shit, sorry,” Tomas says, pulling his hand back.

“Your hand’s warm,” Kent mumbles. “’s nice.”

Tomas doesn’t even know what to say to that. He ignores the flare of heat in his gut. He’s not going to take advantage of Kent while he’s drunk, not even to give him a hug that he probably desperately needs. “Okay,” he says. He stops at Kent’s bedroom door. “I’m gonna let myself out,” he says. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Gonna go to bed,” Kent mumbles.

“Good,” Tomas says. “Go on, then.”

Kent nods vaguely and steps into his bedroom, the door swinging shut behind him. Tomas resists the urge to follow him to make sure he gets in bed okay. Kent is pretty drunk, but not so drunk that he’s really in danger here. So instead, Tomas turns and switches off the lights in the living room. Everything’s quiet from the bedroom.

Tomas rubs a hand over his face, which promptly smudges up his glasses. Great. He turns and lets himself out of the apartment. Five minutes later, he’s in his car, resting his face on the steering wheel.

  
         -------------  


**Kent [8:05 am]:** sry

**Tomas [9:17 am]:** How hungover are you?

**Kent [9:18 am]** : im ok

**Kent [9:18 am]:** sorry

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

Beautiful goal from @kvparson90 in OT!

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1h

That’s the end of our pre-season roadie! The guys are heading to the airport. Vegas, we missed you!

 

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 1h

Well, that was a disaster.

|

**Zach** @RealMrZachary · 1h

At least we dragged a win out of this one

|

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 59m

Yeah, but it took until overtime. I’m worried about our depth.

|

**Zach** @RealMrZachary · 56m

Yeah, the third and fourth line look like garbage. Good thing we’ve got Parson or we’d be dead

  
         -------------  


It happens again the next week. The same staggering through the hallway, the same high-pitched giggles, the same sour twist in Tomas’ stomach. It’s like last week, except worse, because now it’s a pattern.

Kent giggles his way through the _Survivor_ episode and then goes morose again afterwards, until Tomas makes him go to bed.

“Sorry,” Kent says, when he’s in his bedroom door. “Sorry.”

“For what?” Tomas says, from his safe distance by the couch.

“’m drunk,” Kent says.

Tomas sighs. “Yeah, you are.”

“Sorry,” Kent repeats. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “Just… go to bed.”

Kent disappears into the bedroom, and Tomas sits on the couch for a minute, head in his hands, until he steels himself and leaves.

  
         -------------  


Kent’s hands shake as he towels his hair dry after his coaching session the next afternoon. Tomas must already be waiting for him in the hallway. He’d gone to talk to some more of Kent’s coaching kids and told Kent they could meet up outside the locker room for their interview. Kent grabs a bottle of water, takes a deep breath and heads out.

Tomas is leaning against the wall on the other side of the dimly-lit hallway, looking down at his phone. Kent can’t stop himself from looking him over, his eyes moving from Tomas’ short kinky hair, past the little smile on his face, to the green button-down that contrasts with his dark skin. The diffuse light in the hallway seems to make him glow. Kent swallows. It’s hardly the first time he’s run into Tomas at work since he realized he’s completely gone for him. Every other time, though, they were in the locker room or near the rink, with plenty of other people around. Now, the hallway is empty besides them.

“Hey,” he says.

Tomas looks up and smiles at him, and Kent hates and loves the way his entire body responds, how he wants to reach out and touch Tomas’ face and feel his smile beneath his fingertips.

“Hey,” Tomas says. “You ready?”

Kent nods.

He doesn’t feel ready. The only two times they’ve been alone, since Tomas was in Kent’s living room talking about his childhood, Kent hadn’t been exactly sober. It wasn’t his proudest moment. Either of them. He remembers most of it, unfortunately. Getting drunk was a bad idea.

He still wishes he wasn’t sober now. It feels too intimate, being alone together with nobody else around to break the tension that seems to wrap around them like a suffocating blanket. He wonders if Tomas feels it too, or if it’s just him.

He falls into step beside Tomas so they can head to the Aces management and PR offices. “You get a chance to interview some of the kids?” he asks, before Tomas can ask him questions that aren’t about hockey, that he doesn’t want to answer.

“Yeah, it was fun,” Tomas says. “I talked to Bella today.”

“Oh, she’s cute,” Kent says. “Fastest kid on the team.”

“She thinks you’re very funny,” Tomas tells him. When Kent glances sideways, Tomas is smiling kindly at him and Kent’s heart does some sort of somersault that feels very unhealthy but somehow still not altogether unpleasant.

“I _am_ very funny,” Kent says.

Tomas chuckles beside him. They fall silent, and Kent panics a little, but Tomas doesn’t seem inclined to bring up the fact that Kent was really drunk last night. He doesn’t even ask if Kent’s hungover, the way he did over text last week. (Kent _is_ hungover. But he got drunk right before a day without a practice, so at least he seems to have figured out how to not let his messed up personal life affect his hockey.)

Within a few minutes, they’re in a small meeting room in the Aces office building, and Tomas is getting a recording device and a notepad out of his bag. “You mind if I tape it?” he says.

“Do I ever?” Kent says with a grin. He drums his fingers on the table. “All right, bring on the questions.”

It’s weird to have Tomas interviewing him without the noises of his teammates in the background, without other reporters crowding around to ask questions and shove microphones into his face. Tomas is across the table, turning his notepad to a page that’s full of scribbled notes. Kent has trouble tearing his gaze away from Tomas’ hands, until he realizes Tomas is looking at him and he hastily looks at his own hands instead.

“Okay,” Tomas says. “How did you start guest coaching for the Young Aces?”

“Uh, kind of by accident?” Kent says. He twists his water bottle around in his hands. “I was… The first couple years I was with the Aces, I did other charity work. I mean, obviously management wants us to be socially active or whatever, so they can pretend that they care about anything besides money, so—Uh.” Tomas has raised an eyebrow, looking amused. Kent realizes he’s doing an interview, not just hanging out with Tomas at home where he can badmouth Aces management all he wants. “Uh, maybe don’t print that?”

Tomas is outright laughing at him now. “Yeah, best not, eh?” he says, still grinning brightly. Kent can’t look away from the sight. Damn it, he really needs to get his shit together. “You wanna start that answer over?”

Kent huffs out a laugh. “Right, yeah.”

“Something I won’t have to delete as soon as I get home, this time,” Tomas teases, gesturing at the tape recorder.

There isn’t another reporter in the world that Kent would trust with that tape recorder right now. He knows he’ll let Tomas walk out of the room with it, and Tomas will go home and delete it and write a great article with whatever Kent is about to say.

“Right,” he says again. He has no idea what they were talking about anymore. “Okay. Uh. Can you repeat the question?”

“And they say you’re good with the media,” Tomas teases.

“Hey,” Kent protests. “The media think I’m great, it’s just not mutual.” Tomas narrows his eyes, and Kent remembers for the second time in two minutes that Tomas is a reporter. “I mean, except for you, you’re—I mean.” God, okay. He rubs at his face. “Just repeat the question.”

The smile is still evident in Tomas’ voice when he says, “How did you start guest coaching your youth teams?”

Kent takes a deep breath and looks down at his water bottle so he can actually focus. “Right. So I did other charity work first. And then I more or less just wandered into one of the other rinks one day while there was a Young Aces practice going on. The kids who were just starting up, like, six- and seven-year-olds. They were pretty adorable.” He smiles. When he looks up from his hands, he finds Tomas smiling back at him.

“Then what?” Tomas prompts after a moment, and Kent remembers he’s supposed to be telling a story here.

“Uh, right. So I went over to the ice to watch, and one of the kids recognized me, and he asked if I could come skate with them. And I thought, what the hell, why not, you know? Hard to deny a six-year-old anything, if you ask me. So I guess I ended up guest coaching their practice, and then that seemed like as good a way as any to, you know, give back to the community or whatever.” It’s still entirely too easy, for his hungover brain, to forget that he’s here with a reporter. He’s pretty sure this is his least professional, least media-groomed interview ever. Hopefully Tomas can craft it into something useful for PR.

“You’re teaching older kids now,” Tomas says.

“Yeah, the really little ones are fun, but with them it’s just getting their ice legs, you know? I have more to offer to the older ones, I guess. They actually need to learn shooting techniques and strategy, stuff like that. I mean, some of the older kids don’t have a lot of experience on skates, either—cause like, part of the group is low-opportunity kids that get the classes for free, you know? So some of them come in and they’re ten, twelve, and they haven’t really been on skates, ‘cause it’s Vegas, so why would they? So even with the older kids, part of it is just them learning not to fall over, but there’s still more I can teach them, I think. That maybe a coach who hasn’t been a pro can’t do. And I never really know what to do with the youngest kids, anyways,” he says, a little rueful. “Like, they’re cute, but I don’t really get them. Once they’re teenagers, they make more sense to me.”

Tomas scribbles something onto his notepad. Kent wonders what his process is like. He isn’t really all that coherent today. His game-day interviews are basically all rehearsed soundbites that he adjusts for the situation, ready for reporters to copy-and-paste into their articles. Right now, he’s just talking about his coaching kids, saying whatever comes to mind. He doesn’t envy Tomas the task of turning it into a comprehensive article.

“What’s your favorite part of coaching?” Tomas asks, pulling Kent from his thoughts.

“Oh. Seeing them improve, I guess? There’s this one kid, her name is Sally. She first came in last year, and she was just… really nervous. Hadn’t really done anything like this before, and she’s from, like, a tough background. Doesn’t get a lot of support at home—You are keeping them anonymous, right?” he asks suddenly, because he can’t go spouting details about the kids’ home lives if it’s going to be in an article.

“Yeah, of course,” Tomas says. “I’ll change her name if I put that in, and make sure the pictures are of other kids.”

“Okay, cool,” he says. “So she was really nervous coming in, and she didn’t have a lot of experience, and it’s… You know, it’s not even that she’s gonna be a pro hockey player, or whatever, not that that’s as easy for the girls as it is for the boys—I mean, you’ve written about that stuff, so I don’t need to tell you,” he says, and Tomas laughs a little, which is very distracting. “Um, anyway, the point is, she’s just way more confident now. When I give her feedback and stuff, she used to be really self-conscious. Now she just takes it in stride and gets right back to work. And it’s nice to see. I mean, I’m—” He hesitates. He doesn’t ever really talk about his background in interviews. “Don’t—uh, don’t make the whole article about this, but when I was a kid, I…” He swallows and looks back down at his hands. “I wasn’t—It was kinda hard, sometimes.” Just thinking about it, it’s like he can smell the slightly-moldy bathroom of his childhood home, where he hid away as his dad yelled at his mom somewhere in the house. He blows out a breath. “Just, you know. Not the best family life. And hockey was… was important to me, when I was their age. It was something to put my energy in. And I like… knowing that I can maybe offer that to someone else.”

When he looks up, Tomas is looking at him. There’s a little concerned crease in his forehead, but he smiles when Kent meets his eyes. “That’s great,” he says. Kent has to look away from the warmth and sympathy in his expression, or he’s going to do something ridiculous, like blush or blurt out compliments without the excuse that he’s drunk. God, it’s been years since he was this completely gone over someone—well, over Jack, since there’s never really been anyone else.

“Um, yeah,” he says. “Next question?”

“What’s your favorite thing about each of the teams you coach?” Tomas asks.

“Oh, god,” he says. “I don’t know. Um. So on Tuesdays I have the younger girls, they’re eleven and twelve. They’re probably my favorite team—wait, actually, definitely do not put that in your article or my other teams will kill me,” he says.

Tomas laughs. “I won’t,” he says. “Go on.”

“Yeah, so they’re great. I like how enthusiastic they are, mostly,” he says. “I have a boys’ team on Wednesdays. All of this is just when we’re not on roadies, obviously,” he adds. “The boys are fifteen and sixteen. I like how they are as a team. They’re supportive of each other and stuff, it’s nice. And then my third team is the other girls, they’re thirteen and fourteen, so right at that stage of puberty where you don’t know what to do with yourself.” This earns him a chuckle from Tomas, which makes something flutter in his stomach. “And I like… You know, like I said, a bunch of these kids come from homes where there’s a lot of shit going on. Especially in that group. And I like seeing how they leave that shit in the locker room and just, you know, get to have fun and compete and cheer each other on.”

“Do you think you want to coach, after your NHL career?” Tomas asks. He’s not looking at his notepad and he looks curious beyond his professional interest. Kent feels pretty sure he hadn’t really planned on asking that.

“Uh,” he says. “I don’t know? I’ve… never really thought about it.” Mostly because he tries very hard not to think about the fact that his NHL career is probably more than half over already. “Maybe?” He lets out a rueful laugh. “Guess it’s a good thing that I hopefully have a couple more years to think about it,” he says.

Tomas looks thoughtful now. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay, I think that’s all the questions I have, so I won’t keep you any longer.” He reaches for the recording device and turns it off.

“Okay,” Kent says. “When does Catrina want it?”

“Not for two weeks or so,” Tomas says. “For once there’s no rush, since it’s basically just an interest piece we’re saving for a quiet week in the season. But I want to finish it tonight, because I have to write a blog post tomorrow.”

“Don’t work too late,” Kent says, even though Tomas definitely will. Kent is never going to understand night owls.

Tomas puts his notepad in his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “All right, let’s go, I’ll lock up the room,” he says.

Kent steps out and waits in the hallway until Tomas has locked the door. He should probably just go, but he kind of wants to stick around. It feels safer to be around Tomas here than it does at his own place, which is absurd, because this building is full of people Kent doesn’t trust. Maybe it’s because he knows Tomas won’t ask him difficult questions while they’re not really alone.

“ _Merde_ ,” Tomas mutters when he drops the keys he’s just locked the door with.

Kent bends down to pick up the keys. When he hands them over, Tomas’ fingers brush his. It sends sparks all the way up his arm, but he still can’t help flinching away.

“Sorry,” Tomas says, even though he’s done nothing wrong. Kent feels guilt flooding in, for all the times he’s pushed Tomas away over the last months, even though Tomas has never been anything but kind and supportive.

“No,” he says. “It’s…” He takes a deep breath. “It’s okay.”

Tomas looks at him for a moment, his expression indecipherable.

Then there are footsteps down the hall, and Kent can’t help but flinch again. “Uh,” he says. “I… should go.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “Thanks again. I’ll text you the link, when I put up the article.”

“Right, okay,” Kent says. “See you.”

There’s another moment of stillness—the footsteps down the hallway have already disappeared again. Then Tomas turns to head to his office and Kent turns to go the other way, and Kent finds that he misses him already, and hates himself a little bit for it.

  
         -------------  


**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN ∙ 4d

Aces are heading out on their first road trip. Going out west to face the Kings and Sharks.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

Back from our first roadie of the season! We went 1-1-0, now for some home games!

  
         -------------

 

When Kent opens the door, it takes about two seconds for his expression to cycle from confusion through shock to poorly-hidden panic. Tomas briefly feels guilty for showing up three hours early when Kent isn’t expecting him, but he shakes it off. Ambushing Kent in his own home is probably a little unfair, but Tomas couldn’t figure out what else to do to stop Kent from getting drunk before he got there.

“Hey. My meeting was cancelled,” he lies brazenly. “I thought I might as well come over right away. We can get takeout?”

“Uh, yeah,” Kent says. He looks like he’d rather close the door in Tomas’ face, but somehow, he steps back instead to let him in.

A minute later, they’re in Kent’s kitchen, side by side and looking at Kent’s laptop screen as they try to pick a restaurant from which to order. Tomas is hyperaware of the inches that separate their shoulders. He’s started wondering, in idle moments over the past weeks, what would happen if he just kissed Kent, right there in his kitchen. The scenarios he’s imagined range from ‘horrific disaster’ to ‘hottest sex he’s ever had’. He’s still not sure which is more likely.

“I’d suggest Indian but you’d just complain about the cilantro again,” Kent says, pulling Tomas away from his thoughts.

“I told you, it tastes like soap, and it’s genetic so I can’t help it,” Tomas responds. “Let’s do that Italian place you like.”

Kent keeps chirping him about his being a picky eater as they pick dishes to order. It feels almost normal, the way it did before Tomas went to Providence, except Kent’s hands are shaking ever so slightly as he types in his credit card information. When he thinks Tomas isn’t looking, he digs his nails into the skin of his other forearm hard enough to leave angry red crescents.

Tomas isn’t sure he’s doing the right thing. Maybe he should leave, give Kent the space he obviously wants. But he doesn’t know if he can. He can’t help but feel that what Kent needs is someone who sits him down and forces him to face his demons, though it also feels cruel to be the one to do it.

They end up on the couch watching re-runs of _The Office_ while they wait for food. Kent is on the opposite end again, tucked into the corner. When he was drunk, he’d sprawled all over at least half of it, though even then he’d kept his distance from Tomas.

Kent sits tense and tight as they wait for the food, and then again after it arrives when they eat. He chuckles when Tomas makes quips about the characters on the screen, but he’s barely said a word by the time their plates are empty, and he doesn’t protest when Tomas takes the dishes to the kitchen.

When Tomas comes back to the living room, Kent is staring blankly at the TV screen, his right hand balled into a fist so hard his knuckles are white.

Right, that’s it.

Tomas sits back down on the couch, grabs the remote, and switches off the TV. Kent stares at the screen for a few more seconds, and then he turns to look at Tomas. His shoulders are hunched as if he’s waiting for a blow.

It’s been three weeks since Tomas told Kent about his adolescence, since Kent asked him to leave. He’s had three weeks to think of how to start this conversation, and he has no idea what to say. He’s not sure how long they just sit there, looking at each other. It’s probably not that long, though it feels like forever. Eventually, Tomas can’t stand the silence anymore, so he says the first thing that comes to mind.

“So, when did _you_ know?” he asks, as if it’s three weeks ago and he’s just finished telling Kent what it was like to grow up in Trois-Rivières figuring out he was gay, as if that was a conversation Kent wanted to have and Tomas can continue it just by asking him this.

He’s not sure Kent will even understand what he means.

Kent swallows, then swallows again, and then he says, “Know what?”

Tomas is pretty sure the expression on his face must communicate something like _are you going to make me say it_? When Kent doesn’t add anything else, though, Tomas figures he’ll have to. “That you’re gay,” he says quietly.

“I’m not—” Kent says reflexively, but he cuts himself off and says, “Oh god, I am.” As soon as the words leave him, he slaps a hand over his mouth. “Oh my god,” he stutters out, muffled, as his breathing picks up speed until he’s gasping, his shoulders heaving.

“Hey, hey,” Tomas says, scrambling forward across the space that divides them. Before he can think it through, he’s put a hand on Kent’s shoulder. Kent doesn’t protest, for once. “Kent, it’s okay, just breathe slowly, all right?”

Kent shakes his head, still gasping for breath. He pulls his legs onto the couch and close to his chest, wrapping an arm around them so he’s curled into a ball. He’s struggling for breath as he pushes out, “I didn’t know—didn’t want to think about—not until last month when you said—when you said that you kept, kept hoping you’d fall in love with girls and you didn’t, and I…” He draws in ragged gasps between every other word, but keeps going. “I knew, kinda, back in the Q, I knew I—” His chest heaves, and for a moment Tomas is worried he might make himself throw up, but he’s already talking again. “I had a—I fooled around with—but I didn’t think it was real, I just thought, I just thought—oh god, Tomas, oh _god_ , you can’t tell anyone, _anyone_ , you _can’t_ —” He breaks off again, pulling in wheezing breaths.

Tomas doesn’t think he’s ever hated the NHL more in his entire life, but he has no time to dwell on that thought. “Kent,” he says, squeezing his shoulder. “ _Crisse de câlisse,_ Kent, I swear to god, I won’t tell a soul.” Kent manages something resembling a nod, but he’s clearly still drowning in his panic attack. “Hey, come here, breathe with me. In for five seconds, hold for three,” Tomas says.

He models slow breathing and Kent struggles to match him, but eventually he manages a long inhale-hold-exhale in tandem with Tomas. It’s followed immediately by a sob, and when Tomas gently tugs on his shoulder, Kent lets himself fall against Tomas’ side and starts to cry.

“ _C’est okay, c’est okay_ ,” Tomas says, feeling more than a little helpless. He suspects Kent hasn’t cried like this in a long time, and it’s probably healthy and cathartic, but it still sucks to sit here with Kent heaving heartbroken sobs into his side and soaking tears through his shirt. Kent has also never been anything but extremely skittish about being touched. Now he’s fisted his hands into Tomas’ shirt and buried his face against his chest, but Tomas is still hesitant as he curls his arm around Kent’s shoulders and gently rubs his upper arm. Thankfully, it makes Kent press closer to his chest, though at first it also just seems to make him cry harder.

_Crisse de fuck de tabarnak_ , Kent hadn’t even really known he was gay until three weeks ago. Tomas knows plenty of people don’t realize they’re gay until they’re well into adulthood, but he’s always known he was gay himself—or at least, he’s known since early puberty. He can’t really wrap his head around all the layers of denial Kent must’ve put up over the years.

He tries not to focus on that, in favor of quietly murmuring reassurances into Kent’s hair. It’s a long time before Kent calms down. Even when he’s stopped crying, he stays where he is for long minutes, his face mashed against Tomas’ shirt. Tomas rubs circles into his back, feeling kind of useless when he repeats, “ _Tu vas bien_ ,” for what’s probably the fiftieth time now.

He can feel the tension creeping back into Kent’s body in the way his muscles move under Tomas’ hands. It’s not long after that when Kent sits up, his face red from crying and, Tomas suspects, a hefty dose of embarrassment. His shoulders hunch as soon as they’re no longer touching. “Sorry,” Kent says, voice hoarse.

“Don’t be sorry,” Tomas says, at a loss for what else to say.

Kent nods jerkily, shifting back a little further. He looks like he’s physically forcing himself to move, like he’d rather do anything else than crawl back to his side of the couch.

“You don’t have to…” Tomas finds himself saying. He trails off, not sure how to finish the sentence.

“What?” Kent asks, voice tired.

“To go anywhere,” Tomas says. “It’s okay if you want another hug.”

Kent looks at him dubiously, like he doesn’t believe he really deserves to be touched. Tomas isn’t going to let that stand for another second. He grabs Kent’s hand and tugs on it gently.

Kent’s resistance breaks immediately, and he lets himself be pulled into Tomas’ side again. For a few seconds, his body is tense, but then he lets out a long sigh and _melts_ , curling up against Tomas as close as he can.

Tomas only hesitates a moment before reaching for the remote and switching on the TV. They’ve missed almost the entirety of _Survivor_ , but he doesn’t think either of them cares. They watch the last ten minutes of it anyway, and then it changes to some other bullshit show.

What the hell is he supposed to do now?

He’s not sure this is actually better than when he still thought he had a one-sided crush on a homophobe. He’s clearly not in a good position to help Kent figure out how to be a gay NHL player—how to be _okay_ with being a gay NHL player. He’s far too invested in the specific outcome where Kent decides that he wants to be with Tomas.

The long and short of it is, Kent needs someone else to help him figure himself out. The odds of convincing Kent to find a therapist, some stranger he’d tell about this, are probably near-zero. Tomas racks his brain for other options. They’re halfway through an episode of some crime show (maybe NCIS, Tomas hasn’t been paying attention) when he finally comes up with a possibility.

“You should talk to Jack Zimmermann,” he says, as soon as the thought has jumped into his mind. Kent jerks a little in shock when he begins talking, but otherwise doesn’t respond. Tomas goes on, “Cause you know, he knows what it’s like to be in the closet, and out, as a hockey player. And you knew him back in the Q, right, so—” It’s at that point that he recalls Kent’s _Back in the Q, I fooled around,_ and a number of things click in his mind. Parson and Zimmermann, QMJHL teammates, famous best friends on the ice and off. Jack Zimmermann’s abrupt disappearance, an old disastrous interview with Kent right after the draft when nobody knew exactly what had happened to Zimmermann. “Oh shit,” he says. “Shit, no, sorry, shit, shit. Never mind, it was just an idea, pretend I never said that. I— Nope.”

Kent is shaking against him, and after a moment, Tomas realizes he’s laughing. It’s not quite his ridiculous giggle, but he’s chuckling as he says, “All right, don’t hurt yourself there.” He sounds dry and much more himself than Tomas expected, and it eases the last of the tension that was still leftover in the room.

Kent sits up and turns to Tomas, and he looks far better than he did an hour ago, as if he’s recharged by cuddling up to Tomas. He’s also smirking just a bit when he sees how flustered Tomas still looks, and then his eyes flick to Tomas’ lips, and the room is suddenly filled with an entirely different sort of tension.

Tomas feels heat pouring through his veins as the intensity of Kent’s stare grows. He wonders, suddenly, when Kent last kissed a guy. Was it back in the Q? As tragic as that is, the idea is also absurdly hot.

Kent glances at his lips again, then back up to his eyes. Tomas finds himself doing the same thing, because Kent’s mouth looks soft and very kissable, especially when Kent bites his lip as Tomas glances down.

Tomas is  leaning in before he can stop himself, lifting a hand to run his fingers from Kent’s temple to his jaw. Kent lets out a shuddering breath, which is when Tomas has a moment of clarity. He leans back just as Kent leans forward with obvious intent.

_“Crisse,”_ Tomas says. “We—no.”

Kent scrambles back immediately until they’re no longer touching. His eyes are wide. “Shit. _Fuck_ , did I misread that, I’m—I don’t— _Fuck,_ I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” he stammers.

“No,” Tomas says. Already he misses Kent’s skin under his fingertips. “No, you didn’t—” For a moment, he imagines giving in now, only to find the next morning that Kent had just done it because of his emotional coming-out just now. The thought of having Kent and then going back to being just his supportive friend makes his heart feel tight in his chest.  He makes himself take a deep breath. “I can’t be—I can’t be an experiment for you.” Kent frowns and opens his mouth, probably to protest, but Tomas continues, “You just… This is new for you. And I can’t… I need you to be sure that this is something you want. And…” He steels himself because he wants, he _wants_ , but… “I need to know it’s not a one-off.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Kent says. He’s just staring at Tomas now. “But I—This isn’t just because of tonight,” he says. Tomas swallows. He doesn’t know if that’s true, but just the idea that Kent might be in this for real… It’s really, really hard to not just lean forward and kiss him, because he’s gorgeous and amazing and Tomas has wanted him for months.

He has to let reason prevail. “Kent, you wouldn’t even let me touch you before tonight,” he says.

Kent looks away guiltily. “Not because I didn’t want you to,” he says quietly.

“ _Crisse_ ,” Tomas breathes. “I—Okay. Okay. Just. Not tonight, okay? Not tonight. I can’t—I need to know you’re sure. _I_ need to be sure.”

“Fine,” Kent says. He lets out a slow breath and then sits up a little straighter, immediately looking more confident. “Be that way. I’ve waited this long. What’s another week?”

“Right,” Tomas says.

They fall silent, two feet between them on the couch. It’s awkward, but comfortable at the same time. Tomas can’t quite make sense of it. Then he notices that Kent is basically alternating between staring at Tomas’ hands and staring at his lips. It seems almost cruel, all of a sudden, to stay here and let him look but not touch, when he clearly wants to, even if it is just for now. 

“I should go,” Tomas says.

It takes Kent a moment to respond. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

Tomas gets up, and Kent follows him to the hallway where he grabs his jacket. “I’ll see you at the rink,” Tomas says.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “I—sorry, this is weird, but can I…?” He steps forward a little, reaching out just a bit. Tomas wastes no time in pulling him in for a hug.

Kent buries his face in Tomas’ neck even though he has to lean down a bit to do it. Tomas wraps his arms around him as tightly as he can. Kent is warm and solid against his chest. His hair tickles Tomas’ ear.

“Thank you,” Kent mumbles against his skin.

“Anything for you,” he says, unable to keep the sincerity out of his voice, which makes Kent tighten his arms around him.

Kent is blushing when he steps back, and it’s so hard to not just give in and kiss him.

“See you at the rink,” Kent says.

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “See you at the rink.”

  
         -------------  


**Kent [10:17 pm]:** when u said not tonight did u realize were on a roadie nxt week

**Tomas [10:39 pm]** : No

**Tomas [10:40 pm]:** Gives you time to think?

**Kent [10:43 pm]:** ur a fucking tease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
> "Il est un beau cave" = he's a total idiot.  
> "C'est okay" = it's okay  
> "Tu vas bien" = you're okay / you'll be okay
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).
> 
> Leave me a comment to make my day!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up, Kent got drunk a couple of times, there was a lot of unresolved sexual tension, Tomas made Kent admit some things he needed to admit, and Kent got that hug he desperately needed. This week: time to think, the NHL is still homophobia central, and Jack gets another chance to be my favorite plot device. Also: more unresolved sexual tension. 
> 
> Heads up for this fic's usual level of casual slur use and homophobia in this one.
> 
> Uploading a day early this week because I might not get a chance tomorrow. Next week we should be back to Saturdays!
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work! No French in this one, but there will be plenty next week.

When Kent isn’t well-rested the next morning, it doesn’t surprise him. It does kind of surprise him that he doesn’t feel as panicked as he had last night.

He actually feels pretty calm. Content, even. He rolls over on his back and closes his eyes and remembers the feeling of Tomas wrapping his arms around him, whispering “Anything for you” in his ear. It’s not a lot to go on, maybe, but it’s more than enough to bask in for a little while.

There’s a game tonight, so eventually he gets up, feeds Kit, goes for a run, makes himself breakfast. It’s nice to follow his familiar game-day routine, grounding when he otherwise feels like he might float away. It’s a little ridiculous. He hasn’t been this head over heels for anyone since Jack, and he thinks this feels better, in a way. His thing with Jack had burned hot and bright until it flared out into the terror of near-death and the hurt of being abandoned. Even before then, it had been punctuated by Jack’s anxiety and Kent’s insecurity about where they stood. This, with Tomas—it’s not that he knows where _they_ stand, exactly, but Tomas makes him feel safe. And implications of “I need you to be sure this isn’t a one-off” are… well, reason enough to keep smiling as he’s drinking his protein shake and eating his bagel.

  
         -------------  
 

At the rink, Kent drops by the trainers’ room for them to have a look at his ankle, which he sprained a few weeks ago during training. It’s barely bothered him lately, so the visit is a quick one. Then he grabs a glass of water and heads to the locker room to get changed and tape his sticks. Most of his teammates are there already, but they’re preoccupied with chirping one of their rookies, who apparently parked his car into a lamppost this morning. Kent is happy to be ignored apart from the occasional greeting as he prepares for morning skate.

They’re playing Calgary that night, so there’s a team meeting to go over some tape of the Flames’ powerplay, and then they hit the ice and run drills. It’s easy to lose himself in the familiar motions of suicides, regrouping drills, a brief five-on-four so their penalty killers can run their response to the Flames’ man-advantage playing style. Kent hangs back at the end to practice his wrist shot; Scotty is also getting pucks on net. Their backup goalie, Tanner, hangs around for some practice of his own, making some neat glove saves on Kent’s shots until he’s called off the ice by their goalie coach.

Within a couple more minutes, Kent and Scotty have worked their way through their pile of pucks, practicing precision shots on the now-open net. “Sweet,” Scotty says as Kent delivers the last puck topshelf over the glove of an imaginary goalie. “Those cocksuckers don’t stand a chance against us tonight.”

It’s not unlike taking an ice bath, which Kent has to do with some regularity and never enjoys for even a second. There’s the shock, the way his entire body freezes up and his muscles refuse to do his bidding. The way it feels like he can’t catch a breath.

“Yeah,” he blurts out. He forces himself to take a deep breath, turning away from Scotty because he’s half-convinced he’s going to throw up and he doesn’t think Scotty would take kindly to that. “I’m off.”

He thinks Scotty is staring after him, because he’s usually the last off the ice, and he doesn’t ever leave this fast and without responding to a chirp against another team. But it’s all he can do to keep himself together as he makes his way off the ice and unlaces his skates. He’s not entirely sure how he makes it to the bathroom, just knows that he’s retching over the toilet a minute later, thankfully in a single where nobody can hear or find him.

Oh god, what is he doing?

What is he _doing_? Letting Tomas hold him close, basking in the feeling of Tomas’ arms around him? Letting himself get close to Tomas over weeks, over months, knowing Tomas was gay, knowing—oh god, knowing deep down that _he_ was gay? God, he’d almost _kissed_ him last night, had said _it’s not just because of tonight,_ would’ve let Tomas take him to bed if only Tomas hadn’t stopped them. And he’d known all the time that they can’t be together. The moment someone sees them, catches them holding hands or kissing or _fucking_ , the moment someone sees his texts on Kent’s phone and puts two and two together—

He knows it wouldn’t take long—the team has no boundaries, barging in and out of each other’s hotel rooms, stealing each other’s phones. They’ll find out, and they wouldn’t keep quiet. Then the entire world will know he’s queer, and the Aces and the hockey world will chew him up and spit him out. He’ll go from Kent Parson, hockey darling and winner of the Calder, the Hart, the Lindsay, to Kent Parson, _fag_.

And even as he’s heaving his breakfast into the toilet, as he pictures the sneer on Scotty’s face and the disgust on Birds’ and the twitter hashtags and the hockey commentators’ _It looks like Kent Parson’s past his prime, hasn’t scored a 70-point season since it turned out he was—_

—Even as he pictures it, he _wants_. Wants to go home and find Tomas there, wants to press his face to Tomas’ shoulder and forget about the rest of the world, wants to push Tomas onto his bed and kiss him and feel Tomas’ hands on his bare skin, wants his texts on his phone, wants his laughter in his ears, wants, wants, _wants_.

But he can’t have it, because it would cost him hockey, and what is he without hockey?

Somehow, he makes it out of the building without running into anyone, makes it home without crashing Carmen. Once he’s back in his apartment, he collapses onto the couch, and before he knows it, he’s crying.

He cries for a long time, which turns out to be an even worse experience without Tomas to hold him. It’s that realization, more than anything, that pushes him to reach for his phone when he’s calmed down and his breathing is beginning to slow. 

His finger hovers over Tomas’ name, but—Tomas is at work. Kent suspects Tomas would pick up anyway, would listen and make him feel better, but is it fair to ask that of him? Tomas is his—well, he doesn’t know what Tomas is, but he’s pretty sure it’s not great etiquette to ask Tomas to act as his emotional lifeline when they’re in limbo. Tomas had said just last night that he needed Kent to be sure, and Kent had tried to convince him that he _was_. To call him now when he’s having his second breakdown in twenty-four hours…

He bites his lip, scrolls through his contacts, and then his eyes fall to the name of the one person who might actually know what he should do.

  
         -------------  


The phone on the other end rings four times, five, six. Kent is just about to hang up when he hears, “Jack Zimmermann speaking.” So either Jack somehow doesn’t have or use caller ID (not impossible—he’s a weird guy) or he deleted Kent’s number at some point. The thought… doesn’t sting as much as it probably would have a while ago. 

“Hello?” Jack says at the other end. Right, he’s making a phone call. Kent wipes his sweaty hand on his jeans (it’s the Vegas heat, maybe his air conditioning isn’t working right).

“Uh, hey,” he says. “It’s. It’s Kent.”

“Kent?” Jack says, his tone unreadable.

“Yeah.”

“Okay?” There’s a long pause, because Kent doesn’t know what to say or why he thought this was a good idea. “What is it?” Jack says after a while.

“How do you do it?” Kent blurts out.

Another pause. “Do what?” Kent shrugs, doesn’t realize that Jack can’t see that until he hears, “Kent, are you drunk, because if so I’m hanging up right now.”

“Being gay,” Kent says. It’s the first time he’s said the word out loud since admitting that he _is_.

“Actually, I’m bi,” Jack says. “Pretty sure that was in the press release.”

“Whatever,” he bites out. “How do you do it? With hockey?”

Jack sighs quietly on the other end of the line. “I don’t know what you want to hear, Kent. Do you want to come out?”

“ _No_ ,” Kent says vehemently.

“Then what?” Jack says. “Pretty sure you know how to be closeted. You’ve been doing that for years.”

That’s… sort of true, he supposes, but… “But…” he says, struggling to keep his voice above a whisper. “But then how do I…”

“How do you _what_?” Jack’s beginning to sound impatient, and Kent is honestly not sure what he’d do if Jack hung up on him.

“Date?” he says, though the word feels completely inadequate to describe all the things he wants with Tomas.

“Kent, you can date discreetly. We know this because you can clearly hook up discreetly, or people would’ve heard about it,” Jack says, frustration in his voice.

“I can?” he says dubiously.

There’s a beat of silence. “You _haven’t_?” Jack says.

“I mean, kinda,” Kent says, agitated by how incredulous Jack sounded. “I don’t know, I don’t feel like it counts if they never see my face! And that’s beside the point, anyway, because the point is how can I have someone over at my place if I have to think about the neighbors seeing him leave and ratting me out to _Deadspin_!”

“Because… when you hook up with someone you go to their place?” Jack says, and now his voice has gone back to being completely unreadable, which doesn’t make Kent feel any better about the situation.

“Of course not,” he snaps. “When I hook up I don’t fucking _leave the club_ , Jack, because I can’t be fucking _seen with anyone_ or I will lose my goddamn C and get kicked the fuck off my team and probably get my head slammed into the boards by some asshole who doesn’t think queers like me should be on the ice!”

“Kent,” Jack says, his voice still flat.

He realizes suddenly that he’s literally been shouting at Jack through the phone, and Jack is probably justifiably going to hang up on him in two seconds.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he bites out. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t—Fuck, this is so messed up, I shouldn’t have called you, this isn’t even your problem and it’s not like you want me in your life. Shit, never mind. Forget I called, I’m—fuck, I’m so sorry. Sorry. I’ll—bye.”

“ _Kent_ ,” Jack says. “Kent, stop. Wait. Stay on the line.” Kent tastes blood from how hard he’s been biting his lip. After a second, Jack says, “You still there?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, trying to take a deep breath. He’s not sure why Jack wants to keep him on the line, and honestly if Jack’s going to chew him out for yelling, it might be deserved but Kent doesn’t think he can deal with it. He realizes he can barely keep his phone still against his ear, his hands are shaking so badly. That’s maybe been going on for a while, but he hadn’t noticed. His entire body feels weird, like he’s not really in it.

“Okay,” Jack says. “I need—You need to calm down.” He doesn’t sound angry, just matter-of-fact and maybe a little bit concerned. “I can’t—I’m not sure what you want from me.”

Kent chokes out a laugh. “Yeah, me neither. I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have called. I don’t even know… Sorry. I’m just. I don’t know what to do.”

“Okay,” Jack repeats. “I’m going to… sit down for a bit. I’ve got time. Tell me why you called.” He sounds firm, but he still doesn’t sound upset, which is entirely more than Kent deserves.

“I don’t know,” he says. He takes a deep breath, and it settles him in his skin a little more. “I thought—I didn’t know who else to call. I don’t know what to do.”

“Do about what?” Jack asks.

“I—” Kent swallows, tries to find a way to explain. “I don’t know.” He hears Jack sigh and flinches. “Sorry, sorry, shit, I’m not… I don’t know how to say it.”

“Mm,” Jack hums, and falls quiet, waiting for Kent to string more than two sensible words together.

“There’s. There’s a guy,” Kent says.

“Okay,” Jack says.

“And I don’t—I want—I haven’t wanted anyone that bad since you,” Kent says, and then regrets it immediately. “ _No_ , okay, I didn’t say that, fuck, that was inappropriate and also pathetic, fucking _fuck_.”

Jack chuckles on the other end. “I’ll forget that,” he says. “So there’s a guy.”

“Yeah, and I kind of knew I was, you know…” He flops over onto his back, so he’s stretched out on the couch, and presses the heel of his hand to his eyes. “Gay.” There, he said it. “I mean, I didn’t really, I thought—” He cuts himself off, laughs a little. “I used to take girls home, you know. Not often, but sometimes. And it was fine, I mean—I mean, God, I hated it,” he admits. “The guys on my team think I still do it.”

“But you don’t, because you met a guy,” Jack prompts when Kent falls silent. His voice is quiet, sincere, a little tinny over the phone.

“Yeah. I mean, I quit before that. The women, I mean. Sometimes I would…” But no, he can’t say it, can’t speak of clubs late at night, of being so drunk he couldn’t see straight, of picking up guys in the low light of dancefloors, of freaking out the next morning because he didn’t know exactly what he’d done, how careful he’d been. He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I thought it would just… go away, you know? I mean I knew it wouldn’t. But I thought it would.”

Jack stays silent on the other end, listening, waiting. Somehow it feels safe.

Kent swallows, goes on. “Anyway. So then I met, uh, this guy, and he’s… shit. I’m just… He’s funny and stubborn and he… I think he likes me. He said… he… It doesn’t matter, but I’m pretty sure he likes me back.” He winces at how completely juvenile that sounds. “Which, I dunno, that seems like bad judgment on his side, but okay. And he knew. That I’m—” He drums his fingers against the couch cushions. “Gay. And he asked me about it, so I—we—Nothing happened, but...” He trails off, unsure how to describe last night.

“Mm,” Jack hums. “Okay.”

“But I want—I want it. Him. Here.” He gestures at his living room even though Jack can’t see. “Dating, or whatever. He’s… I can’t stop thinking about it,” he says quietly. “But then I went to first skate, and Scotty said…” His stomach twists just remembering it. “It doesn’t matter, it’s not just him anyway, it’s—God, what do I _do_?”

“Well, it sounds like you want to date that guy,” Jack says matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, god, so much,” Kent breathes out. “But I can’t, shit, I _can’t_!”

“Why not?” Jack says.

“I can’t lose hockey,” he snaps. “I can’t do what you’re doing, Jack! I can’t fucking get asked in half of my post-games what it’s like to be _the second out player, Kent, how do you think it’s affecting your playing style?_ I can’t sit out six games because some homophobe decided he needed to slew-foot me and yell slurs at me and watch him get a fucking one-game suspension! I can’t go to the All Star game and listen to my teammates speculate about whether I’m there because I’m good or because I’m queer! I can’t watch my stats drop and know it’s because the other players don’t fucking want me on the ice because I _can’t lose hockey_ , Jack, I’m not fucking strong enough and I don’t know how the hell you do it!”

“Well, it’s nice to hear you’ve been keeping track of my career,” Jack says drily. Before Kent can respond, he continues, “You know I’d been dating Bits for a year before we came out, right?”

It’s an abrupt change in the conversation, and it pulls Kent out of his anxiety tailspin. “You had?” Kent had actually not known that, possibly because he’d avoided most interviews and articles about Jack’s dating life like the plague.

“Mm,” Jack says. “We weren’t out to anyone for a couple months. Then he told his teammates—he was still at Samwell back then. We told my team later in the season. Management knew, too. And we were planning to stay in the closet for a while—obviously that didn’t work out in the end. But we were going to, and we could have. We talked about it a lot, Bits and I. Because it was hard, being closeted. But it wasn’t impossible, and we did what we did because it was our choice and not because we were forced, or we felt like we had to.”

Kent doesn’t know the last time he heard Jack speak that much, and speak so confidently about his experiences. He’s pretty impressed that Jack sounds so composed. God knows Kent would lose his shit if he was in Jack’s position.

“Okay,” Kent says, when Jack seems to be done speaking. “But…” He trails off, unsure what to say.

“My point is,” Jack says, “that I was dating Bitty for a good while without anyone knowing who we didn’t want to know. That it was our decision to come out, and it could be someone else’s decision not to. And…” He pauses, deliberates for a moment. “I know four players from across the league who are dating men. Two of them are considering coming out and two of them aren’t. One of them is married. But you don’t know who they are, because they’re keeping it quiet. So if they can do it, so can you.”

Kent takes a deep breath. “Right,” he says.

“So you should stop thinking you need to choose between being yourself and having hockey,” Jack says. “It’s not true and it’s not healthy.”

“Oh,” Kent says. “I—oh. Okay.”

“Also,” Jack says, “I think you should play with another team.”

“What?” Kent says. “I can’t.”

Jack sighs. “Kent, what’s your favorite thing about the Aces?”

“Swoops,” he says immediately.

“And your second favorite?”

“Um.” Most of his other teammates are… they’re fine, and they’re his friends, but he’s not so sure he’d really miss them if any of them got traded. It makes him feel guilty, sometimes, because he’s the captain, but that’s how it is.

“Yeah, exactly,” Jack says, after the silence has gone on for a while. “Kent, no offense, but the Aces are fucking awful. Three of your players got fined for slurs last season. Two of them in a game against us, if you remember.” Kent does remember. He doesn’t like to think of it. “The entire You Can Play organization hates the Aces’ guts. Why the hell are you with them?”

“They drafted me and then they kept me,” Kent says. “And that’s—that’s just how they are. That’s just hockey culture, right?

Jack sighs. “Kent, there isn’t a guy on my team who would ever be that disrespectful. I’m not saying every team is the Falconers, but there’s teams that go to their city Pride, there’s players that have said to the media that they’d be fine having a gay teammate. Those guys just aren’t with the Aces.” There’s a pause. Kent doesn’t know what to say. Eventually, Jack goes on, “You’re a UFA at the end of this season, so think about it. I know the Aces are going to offer you a new contract. You want to stay there another eight years? Pick any other team, Kent. Find one that isn’t as bad. Get your agent to sign you somewhere else in free agency. Play good hockey with some other team and be a little less miserable.”

It’s getting easier to breathe, and he doesn’t know if it’s just Jack’s voice or the idea that he could play in some other city, with some other team, and it might not be like this. “Yeah, that’s… I’ll think about it,” he says.

“And I think you should tell someone,” Jack says. “Someone other than me and the guy you might be dating.”

Kent digs his nails into the skin of his forearm. “Like who? Why would I do that?” he says.

“Just someone you’re close to. Maybe your sister, or a good friend,” Jack says. “It’s easier when people know. It helped us a lot, telling our teammates. When Bitty and I started dating, nobody knew at first. It was hard on him. It wasn’t the same; he was out. But it’s hard, keeping secrets.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “You think I should tell Swoops?” The thought is honestly pretty terrifying. The idea of losing his best friend, if Swoops isn’t okay with it, is awful. But at the same time, he thinks Swoops would give good advice and even better hugs, and that sounds kind of amazing.

“Yes, if you think he’s the right person, I think you should,” Jack says.

“Okay,” Kent says. “Okay. I can… I can think about that.”

They’re both silent for a little while. “I should go,” Jack says eventually.

“Yeah, of course, sorry,” Kent says. “I’m… Thanks, Jack.”

“No problem,” Jack says. “I’m here if you need help.”

“Thank you,” Kent says again, trying to put as much of his gratitude into his words as he can. “Seriously. Thank you.”

“It’s all right, Kenny,” Jack says, and fuck, hearing Jack call him that still instantly makes him feel better, even if it’s just a little. “Have a good day, yeah? Bye.”

When he’s hung up, Kent spends a couple of minutes staring at his ceiling. Then he remembers that he has a game tonight, and he should probably do something about the fact that he threw up his breakfast and missed team lunch and lost well over an hour of his pre-game time to things that are not hockey related at all.

He feels better than when he left the rink, though. The idea that there are other guys in the league, guys who are dating men and nobody knows about it, is reassuring. Maybe he and Tomas can…

He allows himself to imagine it, just a little, as he cuddles Kit and makes himself food and eats and lies down for a nap. He imagines watching more crappy TV curled up on the couch together, listening to Tomas tell him about shitty co-workers or funny twitter responses to one of his blog posts. Maybe on the off-season, they could take a trip to Quebec—Kent hasn’t been there since the Q except for one-day stints to play the Canadiens, and he knows Tomas misses the place.

When he wakes up from his nap, he has a text from Tomas.

 **Tomas [2:46 pm]:** Good luck tonight, go Aces!

It’s the same thing he texts before every game. Kent smiles at the screen. He doesn’t usually respond when he’s trying to get into his game mindset, but he doesn’t want to leave this one unanswered.

 **Kent [3:10 pm]:** thnx

He presses send before he can overthink it. Then he takes a deep breath, turns off his phone, and heads to the rink.

  
         -------------  


It’s not Kent’s best game. He fans on a pass early in the first, which leads to an odd-man rush on the part of the Flames that ends in a goal. It’s indicative of his focus, though his other subpar moments don’t end up leading to Flames goals. On the other hand, he racks up a point on an assist in the third, and in the end the Aces eke out a win in overtime.

It’s still the early season and he wasn’t playing with his usual line, so he can blame his distraction on that. Besides, they didn’t end up losing. Their coach claps him on the shoulder after they go over the game in the locker room and says, “More focus next game, yeah?”

“You got it,” Kent says, flashing his customary grin.

“Good. Go do press,” the coach says.

Press. Tomas. Kent takes a deep breath and glances at the locker room door, where a half-dozen reporters are already filing in.

He knows he saw Tomas just last night, but it feels like days have passed since then. His heart rate picks up when he lays eyes on Tomas’ familiar profile. Tomas doesn’t look at him, which is probably for the best. The reporters descend on Beck first, since he got an assist and a goal tonight. Kent has a moment to grab his shirt and make himself vaguely presentable. He tries not to look at the reporters, especially not at Tomas, who’s asking Beck a question and looking attentive as he answers.

It’s only a few minutes until Beck nods at the group of reporters and steps away, and then Esther from PR gestures for Kent to take his place. Before he knows it, he’s on the bench with the journalists clustered around him.

Tomas hangs back just a bit, and Kent doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or grateful. The first question is from someone from _Las Vegas Now_ , who asks, “Kent, you were down in the third; what do you think made it possible to turn the game around?”

He takes a deep breath and lets his media training take over. “Well, you know, I think we managed to hold together and stay focused on what we needed to do. Obviously, they put pressure on us, but I think we were able to find opportunities to get over their blue line and get pucks by their defense.”

“You were playing with Ryan Cobb on your line tonight, instead of Damian Scott,” another reporter says. “Do you think that had a big influence on how your line played?”

 _Probably less influence than my own shitty day_ , he thinks. “Well, obviously that’s something we prepared for in practice this morning. Sometimes there’s an adjustment when you’re working with different people,” he says. “But I think we came together well, especially in the third period when it mattered the most. And I think we responded well to the Flames’ playing style.”

He doesn’t mean to look at Tomas, he really doesn’t, but when he finishes his answer, he finds himself glancing over. Tomas is looking at him, of course, because he needs to write an article about this. Once their eyes meet, Kent can’t really break his gaze.

Thankfully, the only thing that the rest of the reporters conclude from this is that Tomas gets to ask the next question. He actually stumbles over the first word, which Kent has never heard him do in an interview. “What—uh, what do you think was the difference between Sunday’s game against the Capitals and this one?” Tomas asks.

It’s kind of a terrible question, compared to the ones he usually gets from Tomas. So maybe he’s not the only one who’s affected by having to pretend everything is normal. “Uh,” he says. “I think in terms of offense, we had a much better game tonight—not just our line, but the entire forward section created more opportunities, passes that connected better. I think tonight we were able to capitalize on those chances.”

There are a couple more questions from the other reporters, and he gives bland PR answers. Then there’s a chorus of “Thanks, Kent,” from the group and he gets to go do his post-game workout. 

  
         -------------

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 2h

I interviewed Jack Zimmermann for Out Magazine. We discussed hockey, being closeted, being out, and celebrating who you are: t.co/giUexn78v

 

 **Jack Zimmermann** @JLZimmermann · 2h

Interview with Out Magazine t.co/giUexn78v  
  
         -------------

The next day, Kent comes home from dinner with a couple of teammates and finds his way to the couch. He lets himself fall down on it, and it takes him a few seconds to even find the energy to fumble for the remote. Maybe he should go to bed, but it’s not even nine and that’s pathetically early even for him, even after two nights of restless sleep. On the plus side, he made it through today without hyperventilating, which is a definite improvement over yesterday’s pre-game disaster, and over the day before that, when Tomas was here.

He flips through the channels on his TV until he lands on a hockey game. The Kings are being visited by the Habs, and the screen is just showing the replay of a Kings goal. It’s not really a game he’d normally care for all that much, but hockey is hockey, and besides…

He grabs his phone and texts Tomas.

 **Kent [8:47 pm]:** u watchin the habs?

The response is almost instantaneous.

 **Tomas [8:47 pm]:** Yeah, you too?

 **Kent [8:47 pm]:** yup

 **Kent [8:48 pm]:** rly nice goal from kopitar

He glances back at the TV screen as he waits for Tomas’ reply. The Habs are not looking good offensively and they haven’t managed to score. Their defense is doing all right, but the Kings put one past their goalie just now, late in the second period. Kent’s phone buzzes in his hand, and he looks down.

 **Tomas [8:48 pm]:** That’s just rude.

 **Kent [8:49 pm]:** if ur team scored i cld compliment them

 **Tomas [8:50 pm]:** Why do I put up with you

 **Kent [8:50 pm]:** because u like me

He regrets it almost as soon as he sends the text. He doesn’t even know why he sent it, other than that he’s clearly too tired for self-control. He never would’ve said anything like this before this week, and he probably shouldn’t be saying it now. He doesn’t think he should be pushing this, when Tomas has said he wants to wait. Before he can regret it too much, though, Tomas’ reply comes in.

 **Tomas [8:51 pm]:** Yes I do

Kent is still smiling down at the screen when another text comes in on the heels of the first.

 **Tomas [8:51 pm]:** Well that was a more promising shift

 **Kent [8:52 pm]:** im not impressed

 **Kent [8:52 pm]:** byron shldve done way more w that pass from shaw

 **Tomas [8:53 pm]:** Not every forward has two Art Ross trophies

 **Kent [8:54 pm]:** well thats their problem

  
         -------------  


“Okay, let’s switch to one-legged squats,” Andrew says.

Kent lets his body relax from the lunges he’s been doing. He’s mid-workout, just at the part where he can feel his body start to protest at how hard he’s working. It’s a nice point to be. “I don’t want to put too much stress on my ankle,” he says.

“Yeah, we’ll do five on that side, ten on the other, repeat that three times,” Andrew says. “How’s it been feeling?”

“Pretty much back to normal,” Kent says. “But I’ve got the knee on that side bothering me already. Don’t really want to add a weak spot in my ankle to that by going too fast.”

“All right,” Andrew says.

Kimmy comes into the gym and waves at Kent in greeting. Kent raises a hand and then takes the dumbbells Andrew hands him.

On the other side of the gym, Kimmy switches on the TV—he likes to watch games as he works out, whereas Kent usually prefers music. He can’t listen to music now, as he’s going over a new set of exercises with Andrew, so he doesn’t mind the TV as much as he usually does.

ESPN is showing the tail end of an afternoon Falcs game. Kent glances over a couple of times as Andrew guides him through his one-legged squats and monitors how his ankle holds up through the new workout routine. The Falcs are up by three, so the start of their season seems to be going well.

The buzzer for the end of the third goes, just as Kent is switching to one-armed dumbbell snatches. Kimmy turns up the sound when ESPN goes to the studio, where a couple of analysts launch into a discussion of the game.

“I think we should start with what happened in the second period,” the one in the middle says. Kent completes the sixth repetition of the exercise and switches to the other arm.

“Security managed to shut those chants down pretty quick,” says the guy on the left. “But obviously it still went on long enough for Zimmermann to notice. We’ve got—Here’s the footage of that.”

Kent falters when he hears Jack’s name. Andrew is frowning at the screen, too, so he doesn’t notice when Kent lowers the dumbbell to his side.

The studio image switches out for footage of the Falcs’ second period. The game commentator says, “The Falcs making a line change now as Mashkov holds the puck behind the goal. He passes to Zimmermann.” The commentator falls silent for a moment, and over the sound of sticks connecting with the puck, there’s a roar in the audience, then a chant.

“For those of you who can’t quite make that out,” one of the studio analysts says, “That’s the home crowd chanting at Zimmermann.”

“They’re chanting ‘Zimmerqueer’,” one of the others says.

Kent barely registers the disgust in the guy’s voice over the sudden pounding in his ears.

“Damn,” Andrew says beside him.

“Zimmermann looks frustrated when he makes it back to the bench,” the first analyst says, as the screen shows Jack grimacing at the crowd, saying something to the guy next to him on the bench.

“I think security shut it down pretty fast,” the third analyst says. “And it was really only this moment—this was the shift right after Zimmermann scored that beautiful goal. And of course he’d scored in the first, too.”

“Of course, with him being the only LGBT player in the league, this isn’t the first incident since he came out of the closet two years ago,” another adds. “But I think it’s the first time I’ve heard chants like this. It might be because he recently did an interview where he talked about his sexuality.”

“Fucking assholes,” Andrew says.

“Uh, what?” Kent says. He’s still staring at the screen in horror, and it takes him a moment to focus on Andrew, as he tries desperately to get his expression to resemble something normal.

“Those fans,” Andrew says. “So you’re losing, that’s no reason to bring personal shit onto the ice. If you don’t want your team to suck, maybe convince management to actually get some decent defensemen, or something. Don’t go after someone on the opposing team for swinging both ways, you know?”

Kent swallows, but he can’t quite figure out what to say. ESPN has switched to a post-game interview.

“Yeah, it’s obviously—I don’t even really want to go into it,” one of the Falcs’ forwards is saying. “I mean, he’s an amazing player, obviously, and I think that’s what’s important, and we’re all—we obviously all stand behind him and support him as a team. I know our fans support us too. So if another team’s fans, if this is how they want to support their team, I honestly just don’t even know what to say to that. Other than I just—I think it’s disturbing, but I’m not gonna—That’s all I’m going to say about it.”

The screen switches back to footage of Jack getting on the bench, looking frustrated and annoyed but—maybe not as upset as Kent expected him to be.

Kent would—if he had to deal with that he would—

But he doesn’t have to deal with it, and he doesn’t have to come out, not even if he does this thing with Tomas, whatever it is.

“Hey, man, did I tell you to stop doing those snatches?” Andrew says.

“Uh, sorry,” Kent says. He takes a deep breath and lifts the dumbbell again.

When his workout is done and he’s had a shower, he has a couple of texts from Tomas.

 **Tomas [3:12 pm]:** Did you see what happened in the Falcs game?

 **Tomas [3:13 pm]:** You all right? I know this sorta stuff can hit hard

He doesn’t really know what to say, so he just grabs his bag and makes his way to his car first, where he ends up sitting in the driver’s seat for a long time, staring at the screen. Is he all right? He’s… he doesn’t feel great. But he also doesn’t feel as badly as he did yesterday, when Scotty said that thing after practice. He doesn’t feel like this means he’s making a mistake, when he reads Tomas’ texts and lets himself feel warm at the idea that Tomas thought of him.

 **Kent [4:05 pm]:** saw it on espn

 **Kent [4:06 pm]:** he seemed ok

 **Kent [4:07 pm]:** im ok too i think

 **Kent [4:07 pm]:** u? let me guess u already wrote a blog post

He doesn’t get an immediate reply, so he drives home first. By the time he’s parked underneath his apartment building, Tomas has responded.

 **Tomas [4:21 pm]:** Well, I’ve already been on a twitter rant

 **Tomas [4:21 pm]:** Blog post is next

  
         -------------  


**Kent [2:54 pm]:** im bored

There’s nothing on TV. Other than practice this morning, he doesn’t have a workout today. Swoops is off buying baby stuff with his wife, and Kent wasn’t in the mood to go hang out with Scotty, Birds and Esko at Scotty’s place.

 **Tomas [2:58 pm]:** I’m working

Kent frowns at his screen. He should leave Tomas alone, then. He’d seen him this morning at post-practice press. It had gone okay until he’d caught sight of Tomas licking his lips when Kent was halfway through an answer on how today’s practice had involved working on the problems that had made them lose to the Schooners the night before. Then he’d lost track of his train of thought completely, and had only just managed to avoid looking like an idiot in front of Tomas and two other reporters.

 **Tomas [2:58 pm]:** But I’m also bored

 **Tomas [2:59 pm]:** Writing my hundredth game preview isn’t super riveting

 **Tomas [2:59 pm]:** It isn’t due till Wed morning but I have to write a blog post tomorrow

The texts bring a smile to Kent’s face, because he’s ridiculously besotted. He tries to shake it off as he composes his response.

 **Kent [3:00 pm]:** sounds dull

 **Kent [3:01 pm]:** no colleagues to distract you?

 **Tomas [3:01 pm]:** Working from home

 **Tomas [3:01 pm]:** How about you?

 **Kent [3:02 pm]:** idk man im just chilling with kit

Kit is sprawled over his lap, her feet hanging off on one side and her head hanging off on the other side. He holds up his phone so he can get a selfie with her.

 **Kent [3:03 pm]:** [photo]

 **Tomas [3:03 pm]:** Cute

 **Tomas [3:04 pm]:** Kit is too

Kent bites his lip _hard_ to distract from the tidal wave of feelings that washes over him. “Fuck,” he whispers to Kit. His fingers hover over his phone screen, but he has no idea what to say back. He can’t even really think of anything other than the warmth and longing that courses through him. Tomas thinks he’s cute. Which isn’t exactly the impression he goes for, but it’s… Somehow, it’s still amazing to hear.

He realizes he hasn’t responded, and it’s been minutes. Before he can do something about that, his phone buzzes with another text.

 **Tomas [3:08 pm]:** Sorry

For what? Kent is still staring at the text as the next one comes in.

 **Tomas [3:09 pm]:** You know next week if you wanted to just watch TV that would be okay

 **Tomas [3:10 pm]:** I know last Wed was kind of a rollercoaster so if you’ve changed your mind, no hard feelings

 **Tomas [3:10 pm]:** I can stop saying stuff like that

 **Tomas [3:11 pm]:** I don’t want to make you uncomfortable

Kent stares at the texts on his screen, and then he grabs his car keys and heads out the door.

By the time he gets to Tomas’ apartment, he feels a little guilty that he didn’t respond to those texts before he left. He’s probably made Tomas worry more. When he checks his phone, Tomas hasn’t sent him anything more, at least.

The main door to Tomas’ apartment building is closed, for once, so he buzzes up.

“Hello?” Tomas’ voice says after a moment.

“Hey. Can I come up?” Kent says.

“What are—Yeah, of course,” Tomas says.

Kent goes through when the door buzzes and heads up the stairs. Tomas’ front door is already open when he gets there, and Tomas is standing in the hallway, a confused frown on his face.

“So,” Kent says, pushing the door shut behind him. “Those texts. Was that—Are _you_ trying to back out? Have you changed your mind?”

“What?” Tomas says. “No, I’m—Kent, you’re—I’m… I’m not backing out,” he says. “I want—whatever you want for as long as you want it.” He winces as soon as he’s said it, like he thinks it’s too much.

Kent has to take a moment to catch his breath. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Good. So. I get that you’re, like, worried that I’m going to change my mind because this is new for me, or whatever.”

“I don’t—” Tomas starts, but Kent cuts him off.

“And you wanna wait until after my roadie to do anything, which is fine, if that’s what you need, to know that I mean it,” he goes on, even though it’s… not fine. He would really like to do something _right now_. Tomas looks gorgeous and inviting, and Kent wants nothing more than to reach out and touch. “But I just wanted to say,” he continues, stepping forward so he’s right in Tomas’ space and they’re only a hair’s breadth apart.

“Kent,” Tomas protests. His eyes flick down to Kent’s lips, and Kent smirks at him.

“I just wanted to say,” he says, “That I’ve wanted you for… mm, I don’t even know how long. Before I knew what—Before I realized what it was. And that I don’t change my mind that easily.”

“Okay,” Tomas says weakly.

“I wanted to kiss you Wednesday,” he says, keeping his voice low. “And I want to kiss you right now, and I’m going to want to kiss you tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. And at some point, it would also be really nice to get your hands on me, because your hands are gorgeous and I can’t wait to find out what they feel like on my skin.” Tomas is just staring at him now, mouth open a little, and the temptation to lean in and kiss him is almost too much. Instead, he says, “I want to take you to bed, and then I want to wake up with you in the morning and make you breakfast.”

The look of longing that crosses over Tomas’ face at that is so clear that Kent can’t help but reach up and cup Tomas’ face with his hand. “Kent,” Tomas say, barely above a whisper.

Kent runs his fingers from Tomas’ temple to his jaw. Tomas’ skin is soft under the pads of his fingers. He forces himself to step away and drop his hand. “So anyway,” he says. “That’s what I wanted to say. You should probably get back to work.”

“What?” Tomas says.

Kent smirks at him. “Work. Your game preview piece? Wouldn’t want our fans to go into the Canucks game with no idea what to expect.”

“Uh…” Tomas is still staring at him, looking dazed, and it’s kind of amazing to know that Kent has done that.

“Cool,” Kent says brightly. “See you at practice tomorrow?”

“Yeah?” Tomas says. He’s still standing there when Kent steps out of his apartment and closes the door behind him.

When he’s back in his car, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

 **Tomas [3:52 pm]:** Fuck

 **Tomas [3:53 pm]:** And you call me a tease?

Kent grins at his screen and drives home.

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 50m

While the season’s getting under way and the Aces are going on another short roadie, the Young Aces have started practices too!

[PHOTO]

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 48m

“My favorite part is seeing them improve,” says @kvparson90. Read all about his coaching: t.co/yuRTrPJg

  
         -------------  


**Tomas [11:43 pm]:** Nice goal

 **Kent [11:47 pm]:** thnx

 **Kent [11:48 pm]:** u gonna be ok on the plane back?

 **Tomas [11:49 pm]:** Yeah I don’t like flying but I’ll live

 **Kent [11:49 pm]:** good

 **Kent [11:50 pm]:** wanna come over tmrw?

 **Kent [11:50 pm]:** or r u making me wait the full 2 wks

 **Tomas [11:51 pm]:** I want to come over tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Smut. And pretty much nothing else. It's not a short chapter, either. I think we've earned it, eh?
> 
> Yell at me in the comments to make my day.
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up, Kent talked to Jack, Tomas and Kent texted a lot, hockey fans were homophobic dickwads to Jack, and Kent paid a little visit to Tomas’ place. Also: unresolved sexual tension. 
> 
> This week: Resolved sexual tension.
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

Tomas’ first thought when Kent opens the door is that he looks amazing. It’s usually his first thought when he sees Kent, but today it’s even more intense. He doesn’t try to stop his eyes from tracking down from Kent’s messy hair to his smirk to his soft green t-shirt to his jeans.

“Hey,” Kent says, his voice low and already a little breathless.

“Hey,” Tomas says.

Kent ushers him in, and they end up on the couch. The TV is on, but Kent takes one look at it and turns it off.

“You don’t just want to watch TV, then?” Tomas says, half joking, half to give Kent an out. Tomas might actually die of frustration and heartbreak if Kent turns him down now. Still, the last thing he wants to do is take advantage of Kent when he’s still figuring himself out.

Kent just raises an eyebrow at him. He’s right next to Tomas on the couch, even though Tomas is in his usual spot all the way to one side. He can feel the heat radiating off Kent’s arm, right next to his own.

“I, uh. Do you want to talk about—” Tomas says.

“No,” Kent interrupts. He takes a deep breath and pulls his legs onto the couch so he’s sitting sideways, facing Tomas. “I don’t… Can we please save the talking for tomorrow?”

Tomas’ breath catches at the implication that he’s going to _be_ here tomorrow. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” Kent echoes.

There’s a moment of stillness, and then Tomas reaches up and rests his hand against Kent’s neck, thumb brushing his jaw. Kent’s skin is soft under his fingertips.

Kent lets out a shuddering breath.

“Can I?” Tomas asks.

“Just fucking _kiss_ _me_ ,” Kent says.

Tomas is completely powerless to resist the desperation in Kent’s voice. He cups Kent’s face, leans in, and presses their lips together.

Within seconds, Kent’s throwing himself into the kiss like he’s a teenager. Tomas thinks dimly that his eagerness shouldn’t be so damn hot, but he can’t really concentrate on the thought. Kent nips on his bottom lip, and when Tomas gasps and opens his mouth, Kent slides their tongues together and it’s everything Tomas has been imagining for weeks.

Kent swings a leg over so he’s straddling Tomas. He locks his arms around the back of Tomas’ neck and kisses him for all he’s worth. Tomas slides his hands down Kent’s back and up under his shirt, resting them on the smooth skin of Kent’s lower back.

Kent gasps against his mouth and jerks forward a little, and Tomas can feel Kent is hard in his jeans, even though it’s only been a couple of minutes. _Fuck_. He has no idea what Kent’s experiences have been, after whatever ‘fooling around’ he did with Jack Zimmermann in the Q. Judging from the way his body responds to making out with Tomas, he isn’t used to much.

Tomas pulls away from Kent’s lips, and reaches up with one hand to gently tilt Kent’s head to the side so he can kiss his neck.

“ _Oh,_ ” Kent says, his voice high. His hands grip Tomas’ shoulders like he needs to hold onto something to stay upright. It’s the hottest thing Tomas has ever felt. He keeps kissing Kent’s neck, moving gently over his skin to find the most sensitive spots. Kent keeps letting out little moans and gasps, pushing his hips forward every now and then like he can’t help it. It’s not that long before he sits up a little, pushing at Tomas’ shoulder so Tomas has to take his lips off Kent’s skin.

Kent is flushed, from his face all the way down his neck, and Tomas desperately wants to take his shirt off and see how far down it goes.

“Fuck,” Kent breathes. “God, I’m—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Tomas reaches up to push his hands into Kent’s hair, which is already sticking up at odd angles. When he scratches his fingers against Kent’s scalp, Kent shudders and lets his forehead drop against Tomas’ shoulder.

“I want… Fuck, I want…” he says, muffled against Tomas’ shirt.

“What?” Tomas says, turning his head to press a kiss to Kent’s temple. “What do you want?”

Kent mouths at Tomas’ neck, somehow immediately zeroing in on a spot that makes Tomas shiver. His breath ghosts over Tomas’ skin as he says, “I told you what I want. I want to take you to bed, and I want your hands on my skin and I want to wake up with you in the morning and make you breakfast.” He takes a deep breath. “But first I want to take this to the bedroom. Want you in my bed.”

Tomas feels something tighten in his belly. “ _Crisse_ ,” he says. “Okay. Okay, we can—we can do that.”

Kent leans in and kisses him again, deep and desperate and clearly horny as fuck. When he breaks away, his chest is heaving. “Fuck,” he says, looking dazed. “Come on, then, want you so bad.”

“You’ll have to get up first,” Tomas points out, a little amused and a lot turned on.

“Right,” Kent says. He stands up, takes a deep breath. “Come on,” he says again, and Tomas scrambles to follow him to the bedroom. As he’s leading the way, Kent reaches for his shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid movement, carelessly tossing it to the side. Tomas is treated to a view of Kent’s back, muscles moving under smooth skin, and it’s… well. Tomas doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve the fact that he’s following a professional athlete to his bedroom, but he’s not about to complain. He can just see the edges of Kent’s tattoo curling around his ribcage, and he wants to run his hands and his tongue all over it, and he’s _going_ to.

Tomas has seen glimpses of Kent’s bedroom, when he pushed a drunk Kent toward his bed three weeks ago. The room is neat, all straight lines, the colors muted except for the red-and-black Aces duvet cover on Kent’s king-sized bed and a pink Hello Kitty pillow on the nightstand. Kit is sleeping on top of it, but she looks up when they come in.

“Sorry, baby,” Kent says as he scoops her up. He briefly buries his face in her fur and then sets her down in the hallway and closes the door. Kit meows once and then presumably disappears to go nap somewhere else.

Kent turns to Tomas, who thinks that it’s frankly unfair that anyone’s abs are allowed to look that good. When Kent sees where he’s looking, he steps closer and smirks at him. “Like what you see?” he says.

He clearly knows the answer, so Tomas doesn’t bother giving it. Instead, he reaches out and slides his hands from Kent’s shoulders all the way down, over his nipples, then sideways over his ribcage. He trails the fingers of his left hand over the swirls of Kent’s tattoo. It’s made up of dark, smoke-like patterns that flow up from his stomach, curl over the side of his ribs, then vanish just below his armpit. Tomas runs his hands down Kent’s stomach and to his hips, until they rest over the low waistband of Kent’s jeans. When he looks back up, Kent’s eyes have glazed over. It takes Kent a moment to refocus on Tomas. Shit, if it wasn’t clear from how he responded to making out on the couch, it’s clear from this: he’s not used to _anything_. Tomas is plenty wound up himself, from all the sexual tension over the past two weeks, but not like this, not with the desperate desire that he can see in Kent’s eyes.

“Go on, lie down,” he says, gently pushing Kent in the direction of the bed.

“If you take your shirt off,” Kent bargains, his voice breathless.

“Sure,” Tomas says, giving Kent another gentle push and then reaching for the top button. Taking off his shirt is probably going to be a little anti-climactic after Kent. He looks _fine_ , but well, he’s not the pro athlete in this room.

Kent doesn’t seem to have any complaints, though. He settles on the middle of the bed, leaning back on his elbows, as Tomas undoes the last button and tosses his shirt over a chair in the corner.

“Come on,” Kent says, and Tomas wastes no time in joining him on the bed, pushing Kent down so he can lean over him and finally kiss him again. He uses the hand he’s not leaning on to trace random patterns on Kent’s stomach and chest. When their mouths break apart, Tomas leans up a little so he can see what he’s doing. There are fading bruises low on Kent’s ribs, probably from a rough check in one of last week’s games, and Tomas trails his fingers around them and then back up. Kent has closed his eyes; he’s breathing shallowly. It doesn’t look like he’s going to tell Tomas to stop, so Tomas trails his fingers to Kent’s right side, where his tattoo wraps around his ribcage. He knew it was there—he’s caught glimpses in the locker room, and Kent has done an ESPN body shoot, so he doubts any hockey fan _doesn’t_ know it’s there. But now he gets to admire the black-and-grey up close, follow the smoke up, all the while feeling Kent’s warm skin under the pads of his fingers.

“Is that a cat?” he asks, spotting a few lines high up in the smoke that look like they have more defined shape than the rest of it.

“Wh… uh, what?” Kent says. His eyes are unfocused even when he opens them to look at Tomas. When he speaks, his voice is slow, like he has to drag the words from deep down. “Uh, it’s—yeah, it’s for Kit, I had it put in last year.”

“Nice,” Tomas says. He leans down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the darkest swirl of smoke, over Kent’s ribs.

“Hh—hah,” Kent huffs, his chest heaving. Christ, that’s hot. Tomas could do this forever, watching the arousal and pleasure washing over Kent. He brushes his fingers over Kent’s nipple, and Kent gasps again, louder. Tomas raises an eyebrow. Is this a thing for Kent? He leans down and replaces his fingers with his mouth, sucking gently on Kent’s nipple.

Kent’s hips arch off the bed. “Ah, ah, fu—” His fist flies up to his mouth as he cuts himself off.

“Okay?” Tomas asks, just to make sure.

“God,” Kent huffs. There’s a wild look in his eyes. “Yes, fuck, yes, it’s okay.”

Tomas doesn’t need to be told twice; he leans back down and it’s not long before Kent is moaning again, though he seems to be trying to keep quiet. It’s not a policy Tomas is in favor of, because he really likes the noises Kent is making, but he lets it slide for now.

“Don’t—fuck,” Kent stutters out after a while, and Tomas eases off slightly from where he was kissing Kent’s stomach to let him speak. “Don’t l-let me be this selfish in bed,” Kent manages through gasping breaths. “This feels un… unfairly one-sided, do you want—Ohh,” he cuts off when Tomas reaches up to slide a hand into his hair. Kent’s response to hands in his hair is definitely something that warrants further investigation at some point.

“No, just let me,” Tomas says. “You first, yeah? I think you’ve waited long enough.”

Kent lets out a breath that’s almost a sob. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says emphatically. “Yeah, okay, okay.” When Tomas reaches a hand down to Kent’s waist, though, Kent grabs his wrist to stop him. “You wanna take your clothes off first?” he suggests, managing to sound sly despite how far gone he is.

Tomas is not one to ignore such a request. He nods and moves back off the bed, wasting no time unzipping his pants and stepping out of them, his boxers following quickly. Kent watches, and the punched-out look on his face is pretty gratifying. Once he’s undressed, Tomas gets back onto the bed, settling half on top of Kent to kiss him again.

Tomas can’t help but move his hips at some of the noises Kent’s making, but the friction against Kent’s jeans quickly gets to be too much. He leans back up on one elbow and reaches down with his other hand to cup Kent through his jeans. “ _Oh,”_ Kent gasps, digging his teeth into his lower lip.

“Wanna take these off?” Tomas says.

“Yeah, fuck, yes.” Kent drags in ragged breaths as Tomas undoes his fly. He lifts his hips so Tomas can drag his jeans down.

He can’t help but bark out a laugh then, because: “Is that Aces underwear?”

“Hey,” Kent huffs out. “Gotta support my team. Shut up and take them off.”

“Yes sir,” Tomas says, still chuckling as he does so. Then he has Kent spread out and naked on the bed, and he takes a moment to just look. God, he’s gorgeous. Kent lies still and waits for him to look his fill, his breathing slowing down a bit as the seconds pass. Eventually, Tomas runs a hand down Kent’s side, to his hip, trailing his fingers over Kent’s thighs. Kent’s breathing picks up again the closer he gets to his dick. Tomas quickly runs through their options in his head and settles on, “Want me to blow you?”

Kent shudders at the thought but shakes his head almost immediately. “Fuck, I… No,” he says, swallowing heavily. “Not now, I can’t—I don’t think I—Next time?”

“Sure,” Tomas says. “Hands?”

“Yeah— _fuck_ ,” Kent sobs, because Tomas doesn’t wait to wrap a hand around Kent’s dick. “ _Fuck,_ fuck, oh my god, Tomas,” he blurts out, his hands fluttering uselessly in the air. “I have—I like—There’s lube in the drawer,” he manages after a moment, gesturing in the direction of his bedside table.

Tomas nods, not sure all of a sudden how much he trusts his voice. He might be slightly more in control of himself than Kent is, but watching Kent come undone at his first touch is a heady thing, and he doubts he’s going to last all that long himself.

He finds the lube in the bedside drawer and warms some up in his hand as he moves back over and kisses Kent. “I’m not gonna—I’m not gonna last,” Kent says between kisses, reaching up to trail his hands down Tomas’ chest. Tomas shivers at the feeling. “Sorry,” Kent adds.

“It’s fine. There’s always next time,” Tomas says. “’s long as you feel good.”

“Already do,” Kent says, achingly sincere.

“Good,” Tomas says. He presses a kiss to Kent’s cheek and reaches down to take him in his lube-slick hand. Kent moans, long and low, as Tomas slowly slides his hand up. Tomas feels his own dick twitch in response. God, this man. “Tell me what you like,” Tomas says, which may be a little too much to ask of Kent at the moment.

“F-faster,” Kent says. Tomas does, experimenting with speed and the tightness of his grip until Kent is all but writhing on the bed, making little punched-out noises that he’s clearly trying to keep in. “I can’t—I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m gonna—” Kent gasps out through gritted teeth, his hand coming up to grip Tomas’ shoulder so hard it’s almost painful.

“Go on,” Tomas says. He shifts onto his knees so he’s got his other arm free as well and slides his fingers into Kent’s hair just as Kent arches off the bed. Kent is silent as he comes, though he seems to be biting his lip nearly bloody in the effort. 

He’s shaking and gasping for breath as he comes down from his high, almost immediately curling into Tomas’ body in a search for more skin contact. Which is… less than ideal, because he’s smearing come all over Tomas’ chest as well, but Tomas forgives him immediately. He  pulls Kent close, pressing kisses to his closed eyelids and cheeks and forehead as Kent’s breathing slowly comes down to normal. Tomas is still unreasonably turned on, but he can wait to let Kent enjoy his post-orgasmic bliss for a little while longer.

“Mmm,” Kent hums after a minute. He rolls over onto his back and opens his eyes. “God that was… that was good,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Kent responds. He sits up. His eyes trail down Tomas’ body, lingering where his hard-on betrays his arousal. “Need some help with that?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” Tomas says. A moment later, Kent nudges at his shoulder. Tomas sits up a little and Kent curls around his back, one leg on each side of Tomas. He reaches for the lube and a moment later he wraps his hand around Tomas’ dick.

Tomas lets his head fall back against Kent’s shoulder and breathes out slowly, already feeling his arousal spike up again. His hips buck up without his permission. Kent shudders behind him and lets out a low moan.

“ _T’es bien_?” Tomas says, breathless.

“Just oversensitive,” Kent says, though his hand doesn’t slow.

“We can—ah, that’s good—we can move?”

Kent shakes his head even as he shivers again. “Nah, I like it,” he says, sounding out of breath himself, and damn, Tomas is surprised at how hot that is. Kent licks a long stripe up Tomas’ neck until Tomas shivers, and then keeps kissing the sensitive spot he’s found. He reaches up with the hand that isn’t on Tomas’ dick to stroke long lines from his jawline down to his hip and back up.

It’s not long before Tomas says, “ _J’vais v’nir_ ,” only realizing as he says it that he’s switched to French again. He knows Kent understands, but somehow still tries to switch back. “ _J’veux dire…_ I mean…”

Kent laughs behind him. “ _Est-ce que je t’ai fait oublier l’Anglais?”_ he asks. “ _C’est okay, j’sais que je suis incroyable.”_

Tomas lets out a breathless laugh and turns his head toward Kent’s. “ _Ferme-la_ ,” he says between kisses.

Kent smirks at him when they part. “Come on then,” he says, his voice shifting into something low and incredibly sexy. “Come for me.”

Fuck, Tomas loves his voice, and it doesn’t take long after that. Tomas pushes his hips up and moans as he spills over Kent’s hand. Kent lifts his hand to his mouth as Tomas is still catching his breath. He licks his fingers clean and fucking _winks_ at Tomas, and it should be gross and ridiculous, but it sends sparks through Tomas’ body even though he’s spent.

Kent slides out from under him and guides him with gentle hands until he’s lying on his back. “Back in a minute,” he says.

“ _À bientôt,”_ Tomas says, partially because he’s tired and French is easier, partially just to be a shit.

Kent giggles as he disappears into the bathroom, and warm affection runs through Tomas’ body. He closes his eyes and basks in the feeling.

Kent takes longer than a minute. Tomas hears a cabinet door at first, then running water, then silence. After a moment, he starts to worry that maybe Kent isn’t okay, that he’s panicking in the bathroom. Maybe they went too far, maybe it was too overwhelming, maybe he—When he opens his eyes, though, Kent is standing in the doorway. He’s holding a wet washcloth, his blond hair is sticking up at all angles, and he’s looking at Tomas in his bed with warm eyes and a smile on his lips.

As soon as he notices that Tomas’ eyes are open, he snaps out of his reverie and steps forward, tossing the washcloth onto Tomas’ stomach. Tomas hisses at the cold and throws him a dirty look, to which Kent just smirks.

Tomas cleans himself up and tosses the cloth back to Kent, who disappears into the bathroom again. When he comes back, he claims little spoon, curling up in front of Tomas and grabbing Tomas’ arm to pull it over himself.

“Mmm,” he hums contentedly.

Tomas strokes his fingers over the bare skin of Kent’s stomach, and Kent hums again. It’s quiet, intimate, warm. Tomas presses a kiss to Kent’s neck and revels in the soft sigh that Kent lets out.

Minutes tick by slowly and neither of them speaks. Tomas feels utterly content, pressed up against Kent’s skin, letting his fingers trace circles on Kent’s belly and side and arm and thigh. He wonders if Kent is going to fall asleep—it’s still early in the evening, but he did just have what looked like a pretty intense orgasm.

“I’m hungry,” Kent says out of the blue.

Tomas laughs and pulls him a little closer. “Wanna order pizza?”

“Ugh, I can’t,” Kent says. “My nutritionist would kill me.”

“We just burned a bunch of calories,” Tomas says. Kent huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Besides, does your nutritionist need to know?”

Kent twists until he’s on his back and meets Tomas’ eyes. His expression turns from considering to mischievous. “I guess not,” he says. “I can probably get away with it just this once.”

An hour later, they’re eating pizza on Kent’s bed. Kent’s back in his jeans and shirt, since he had to go down to meet the delivery person. Tomas has gotten dressed as well, except Kent made him leave his button-down unbuttoned, and Tomas was helpless to resist his sly smirk when he suggested it.

The TV in Kent’s bedroom—almost as ridiculously big as the one in the living room—is playing a show that Tomas isn’t paying attention to, because Kent is recounting last night’s game against the Sharks. Tomas watched it, but Kent’s perspective is different. Besides, he thinks Kent could recite the phone book right now and Tomas would be interested.

“So many terrible, terrible calories,” Kent says as he takes the last slice of pizza. Tomas leans over and kisses him before he can take a bite.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure your body can handle some pizza,” he says.

Kent grins at him. “My body can handle anything,” he says, and bites into the slice.

When the pizza is all gone, Tomas sits back against the headboard and pulls Kent between his legs, Kent’s back to his chest. “Okay?” he says as he wraps his arms around Kent.

“Fuck yes,” Kent sighs, going boneless against him.

“What are we even watching?” Tomas says.

“Dunno,” Kent says. “Some kind of sitcom? I’ve seen it before, I think. Can you…”

“Can I what?” Tomas says, when Kent doesn’t seem inclined to finish his sentence.

“Nothing.”

“Can I what?” Tomas repeats.

“Can you put your hands in my hair,” Kent says, so fast the words blur together.

Tomas feels a wave of affection wash over him. He presses a kiss just behind Kent’s ear. “I definitely can,” he says, reaching up to slide his fingers into Kent’s hair.

Kent lets out a shaky breath and melts against him even further. “You…” he mumbles.

“What?” Tomas says quietly.

“Nothing. Just. You’re… you’re great,” Kent says. “I’m—Fuck, sorry, I’m making a fool of myself, don’t mind me.”

Tomas feels like his face is going to split apart from how wide he’s smiling. “You’re not so bad yourself,” he says.

Kent huffs out a laugh. Then they fall silent and there’s nothing but the noise from the TV and the feeling of Kent’s body against his, quiet, intimate, warm.

  
         -------------  


When Kent opens his eyes, it’s to the sight of Tomas on the other side of the bed. He’s pretty sure they fell asleep spooning, but Tomas has starfished out across most of the bed and Kent has migrated to the side he’s not usually on.

Tomas is on his stomach, his face turned toward Kent. He’s fast asleep, breathing slowly in and out, his mouth slightly open. It shouldn’t be so attractive, but Kent still has to bury his face in his pillow from the force of the feelings that overwhelm him.

A glance at his alarm clock tells him it’s still early. There’s no game today and he isn’t due at the rink until 10. He could stay in bed for a while longer, but there’s a jittery excitement in his limbs that makes him decide he should just go on his run now.

He rolls out of bed and finds himself shorts, a shirt, and his shoes. Tomas doesn’t stir, even when Kent steps out into the hallway and trips over Kit, who apparently posted in front of the door all night in protest of not being allowed to sleep in the bedroom.

He swears under his breath and follows a disgruntled Kit to the kitchen, where he gives her breakfast and a few extra treats in an effort to appease her. After hunting for a pen and piece of paper, he writes _out 4 a run, back soon_ and slips back into the bedroom to put the paper on his pillow.

Half an hour later, he returns to find Tomas still fast asleep. In the end, it’s the sound of Kent showering that wakes him up; when he returns to the bedroom toweling his hair dry, he finds Tomas sitting up in bed, rubbing blearily at his eyes.

“ _Y’é quelle heure et pourquoi t’es reveillé_ ,” Tomas mumbles. Kent knows Tomas would sleep in until noon every day if he could get away with it, but he’s never actually _seen_ him bleary-eyed and still half asleep in the morning. He bites down on a smile.

“It’s almost 7 and I went for a run,” he says, hopping onto the bed.

“How?” Tomas falls back into the pillows with a groan. “No, I don’t care. I don’t want to be awake.”

“You sure? I’ve got some ideas to wake you up,” Kent says, crawling forward to lean over Tomas and smirk at him.

Tomas opens his eyes again. “Well,” he says, his gaze skittering down Kent’s body. “I could be persuaded.”

Kent leans in to kiss him, which is… kind of gross, since Tomas just woke up, and yet it still manages to make heat sing through his body within seconds. Kent makes himself pull away. “Gross,” he says. “Brush your teeth first.” Tomas gives him an unimpressed look, so he amends, “If you brush your teeth, I’ll blow you.”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” Tomas says, but he doesn’t quite manage to sound convincingly reluctant. He shuffles off the bed and disappears into the bathroom, and Kent rolls over onto his back and basks in his mix of runner’s high and beginning arousal.

Tomas is back within a few minutes, looking marginally more awake than before. He hovers over Kent and kisses him, now tasting of Kent’s toothpaste, which is infinitely preferable. Kent can’t help but get a little lost in the kiss, dimly aware that he’s already hard and that he’s letting out little moans and gasps.

Tomas pulls back after a little while and says, “Pretty sure you promised me something.”

“Uh,” Kent says, blinking as he tries to get his thoughts back in order. “Oh, yeah. Come here.” He flips Tomas over so he’s on his back on the middle of the bed and pulls his boxers off.

He can feel Tomas’ heated gaze on him as he kneels between his legs. Unlike Kent, who apparently has retained the stamina and reactivity of his fifteen-year-old self, Tomas isn’t fully hard yet—but Kent can fix that. He leans up to kiss Tomas again. Then he kisses his cheekbones and runs his fingers gently over the sides of Tomas’ face. Tomas’ glasses are still somewhere on the bedside table. Kent kisses the tip of his nose, then his eyelids when Tomas’ eyes slide shut. Tomas is smiling now, still sleep-soft.

Kent kisses his way down Tomas’ neck and chest, pausing on spots whenever he hears a hitch in Tomas’ breathing. Tomas slides his hands into Kent’s shower-damp hair when Kent is sucking on one of his nipples, and he falters for a moment because _shit fuck that feels good_. When he’s regained his focus, he licks the rest of the way down Tomas’ stomach, relishing in the way Tomas’ soft sounds tell him what he likes.

He loves how different Tomas’ body is from his. How his dark brown skin seems to take on almost-blueish tones in the dim morning light of Kent’s bedroom, contrasting with Kent’s pale fingers as he slides them down Tomas’ chest. How Tomas’ body carries a layer of softness—around his upper arms, at his sides, on his belly—that Kent with his athlete’s body hasn’t had since he was a kid. He loves that softness—loves the sensation of it as he kisses Tomas’ stomach, even as Tomas squirms a little. Kent wonders absently if he’s self-conscious about it. Just in case, he takes his mouth off Tomas’ skin for long enough to say, “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” Tomas has his head propped up against a pillow, looking down at Kent. He smiles at the compliment, then squirms again when Kent finds a sensitive spot on his hip.

Tomas lets out a long sigh when Kent finally gets to the main event and wraps his lips around the tip of his dick. He was quiet last night, too, but Kent finds that he’s still expressive, communicating his pleasure in the way his breath stutters and his hands tighten in Kent’s hair.

Kent hums as he takes Tomas in a little deeper. He’d forgotten just how much he loves this, the weight and taste of someone in his mouth. Even better when it’s Tomas, who is… well. Kind of amazing.

He feels his own arousal ratchet up when Tomas lets out a shuddering breath. When he looks up, he finds Tomas staring at him, his gaze hot and heavy now. Kent swallows around Tomas’ dick, and Tomas hisses above him. “ _Crisse_ ,” he says.

Kent pulls off so he can say, “ _C’est juste moi_ ,” and it’s completely cheesy but Tomas laughs anyway. There’s something fond in his eyes that Kent isn’t sure he knows what to do with, so he bends back down and takes Tomas into his mouth again, and revels in the sensations of Tomas’ hands in his hair and his dick in his mouth.

He reaches down and wraps a hand around himself because he can’t not, because he’s close just from giving a blowjob and he’s not entirely sure if it’s because he’s been denying himself for so long or because he loves doing this so much or a little bit of both.

“I’m, ah, I’m close,” Tomas says above him. “You want to…” He tugs on Kent’s hair, probably to suggest he take his mouth off. Kent keens at the sensation and only just manages not to come. He shakes his head as best as he’s able, and Tomas eases off and says, “Shit, okay, okay, you want… in your mouth?”

Kent doesn’t dignify that with a response, just swallows around Tomas and presses his tongue to the place that makes Tomas gasp, and it’s not long before Tomas lets out a groan and comes in Kent’s mouth. He sucks Tomas through it, shivering at the taste, and then moves up Tomas’ body, placing a hand next to him to hold himself up as he leans down for a kiss.

Tomas grimaces at the taste of himself, which Kent thinks he would probably find hilarious if he wasn’t so damn close to coming. He picks up his pace of jerking himself off, gasping against Tomas’ neck.

“Shit, I’m gonna—I’m close, fuck, _fuck,_ ” he says, before kissing him again.

“Let me,” Tomas says, reaching down to wrap his hand around Kent’s on his dick.

That tips Kent over the edge pretty much immediately. “Ah, ah, _god_ ,” he moans as he comes all over Tomas’ stomach. His arm has decided it won’t hold him up any longer, so he lets out a shuddering breath as he collapses half on top of Tomas. Okay, he’s definitely going to need another shower.

“Nah, just me,” Tomas says after a second.

“Fuck you,” Kent says without heat. Tomas laughs, wrapping an arm around Kent’s back and holding him tight. Kent closes his eyes. It’s not late yet. They can drowse a bit longer.

He doesn’t quite fall back asleep, but he’s hovering on the edge of it, content to doze and enjoy his post-orgasm haze with Tomas’ arm wrapped around him.

When he lifts his head to glance at the clock again, it’s just past 8. “You wanna have breakfast?” he says.

“Mm,” Tomas mumbles. “You don’t have to go to the rink yet?”

“Practice at 11,” Kent says. “Gotta watch some tape before that, talk to the trainer, but I don’t have to be there before 10. Which is lucky, ‘cause if I had to be there earlier, you wouldn’t get to shower with me.”

Tomas groans and pushes at Kent’s shoulder until he rolls off. They’re pretty much stuck together by Kent’s come, which is disgusting and reinforces Kent’s desire for a shower. Tomas stretches his arms above his head and yawns. “Do I want to shower with you? I have a feeling you’re gonna stand under the shower and not let me get any of the water.”

Kent grins. “You haven’t seen my shower.” He grabs Tomas’ hand, and Tomas lets himself be pulled to the bathroom and around the little half-wall that separates Kent’s amazing shower from the rest of the space.

Tomas blinks at the shower. “Yeah, okay, this is… I think my whole bathroom fits in here,” he says. Kent’s shower has a rain-mimicking showerhead in the ceiling and jets on the walls. It’s possibly Kent’s favorite thing about his apartment, though he usually just uses the normal showerhead. He has too many showers and lives in a desert, where water waste feels like a bigger moral wrong than in other places. But having Tomas over is an excellent excuse to utilize his shower to its full potential.

Kent twists the knobs on the wall until water is flowing from the showerheads and nudges Tomas toward the water. Tomas lets himself be pushed into the streams but immediately jumps back with a shriek. “ _Crisse_ , it’s freezing,” he hisses.

Kent just laughs and steps up against Tomas’ back, ignoring Tomas’ struggles as he pushes until they’re both under the jets, which are lukewarm now and rapidly heating to a more pleasant temperature.

“ _T’es fatiguant_ ,” Tomas grumbles at him.

“You like it,” Kent counters.

Tomas turns around and kisses him. “Well, I like you,” he says.

Kent feels warm all over as he crowds Tomas against the wall and kisses him hard. “Shit, you’re amazing,” he says between kisses.

Tomas kisses him back, guides him back under the water, and makes some effort to get them clean. Kent is pretty sure he’s not being very helpful, but he’s in the shower with a very naked and very gorgeous guy, so who can blame him if he keeps getting distracted by Tomas’ hands on his skin, if he keeps having to press kisses to Tomas’ face and neck and shoulders?

He can feel arousal stirring in his belly, and pretty soon it’s noticeable and Tomas looks up at him with a smile on his lips.

“Again, Kent, already?” he teases. Kent thinks he would maybe be embarrassed if he weren’t occupied with the feeling of Tomas running wet hands over his chest and abs.

“Ah—” he huffs out. “Ah, it’s fine, we don’t have to—” He’s ignored his body plenty of times, though rarely while in the shower with someone he was this attracted to. Either way, he’s had two orgasms in less than twelve hours, which is well above his average, so he’s sure his erection will go away eventually. “We can just—” he says, but he’s cut off when Tomas wraps a hand around him. “F-fuck,” he hisses.

“We can,” Tomas agrees easily, looking unfairly composed compared to Kent. “Or I can return the favor and blow you.”

Just like when Tomas made the suggestion last night, a white-hot rush of arousal washes over Kent at the thought. “Oh _fuck_ ,” he whimpers. He’s pretty sure he’s going to come way too quickly, but he’s not quite as close as he was yesterday—and even if he was, he’s not sure he’d have the willpower to turn down the offer a second time.

“That a yes?” Tomas rubs his thumb under the head of Kent’s dick.

Kent’s not sure how he keeps his feet under him. “God, _please_ , please, yes,” he hears himself say, and all right, he needs to get a grip because this is getting embarrassing. For fuck’s sake, he just came less than an hour ago, how can he be this affected?

Tomas sinks to his knees in front of him, water running down his back, and presses his cheek to Kent’s dick. Kent closes his eyes and bites down on his fist to keep quiet.

“Hey, don’t do that, I wanna hear you,” Tomas says.

Kent swallows. He knows there’s nobody who will catch them here, in his ritzy apartment with thick walls. But he’s trained himself to be quiet in hotel rooms on roadies in the Q, in closets at the back of equipment rooms of hockey rinks, in Jack’s bedroom with Jack’s parents downstairs, and he’s not sure he can let it go.

“You sound hot,” Tomas says in his fucking Quebecois accent as he looks up at Kent through dark lashes. Kent whimpers and lowers his hand down. It’s almost like a reward when Tomas bends down and takes him into his mouth.

Kent slams his head back against the wall in a way that would maybe be worrisome if he didn’t run higher risks of a concussion at his job every day. “Oh, oh, oh,” he moans. God, it’s been—he doesn’t even know how long since he’s had a blowjob. Tomas sucks on the head of his dick, swirls his tongue around it, and Kent closes his eyes, hears his own moans and gasps echo off the tiled walls of his bathroom. Tomas holds his hips against the wall with both hands, which is not an unnecessary luxury because Kent has no idea what his body is doing except he wants _more_ and _now_ and _faster._ Tomas takes him deeper, his mouth slick and hot around Kent as he slides his lips up and down, and Kent can’t breathe with how good it feels.

Tomas presses his tongue to his slit, and Kent’s orgasm slams into him between one second and the next. “Ngh, oh, _oh_ ,” he whimpers as his body shudders through it. “Shit, sorry,” he gasps as soon as he has the breath for it. He lets himself slide down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, one leg on either side of Tomas, who has spit out Kent’s come and grimaces at him.

“Give a guy some warning,” he grumbles.

“Sorry, sorry,” Kent says, still trying to catch his breath. “I’m sorry, _shit,_ I didn’t think I was gonna—”

“ _C’est okay, minou_ ,” Tomas says, looking placated already. “You can make it up to me next time.” He looks a little uncertain as soon as he’s said it, like he still doesn’t believe that Kent isn’t going to change his mind.

“I will,” Kent says. “I—what did you just call me?”

“Oh,” Tomas says. “Uh, sorry.”

“No,” Kent says. “I’m not—what did you say?”

Tomas trails his fingers down the side of Kent’s face. “ _Mon minou_ ,” he says, a little hesitantly, but with the same warmth as the first time.

Kent thinks he should maybe be affronted that he’s being referred to as a kitten, but he can’t help smiling instead. “Okay,” he says.

Tomas leans in and kisses him. Kent reaches up with still-shaking hands and runs his fingers over Tomas’ cheeks, his jaw, his neck. He lets Tomas pull him back to his feet after a minute or two, and then they finally get around to actually making sure they step out of the shower cleaner than they went in.

Kent feels a little floaty, which is probably because he’s come twice since he woke up. But he still remembers that he promised Tomas breakfast. He manages to make toaster waffles and coffee for Tomas, and whole-wheat bagels and a protein shake for himself. He’s tempted to go for the toaster waffles too, but after last night’s pizza he really does need to get back to his proper diet. They end up on the couch watching some shitty morning talk show while they have breakfast. Tomas is quiet and still kind of sleepy, leaning into Kent, nuzzling against his neck. Kent can’t stop smiling. He’s kind of glad Tomas can’t see from where he’s pressed against Kent’s side. Tomas perks up gradually as he drinks his coffee, and by the time he’s finished his second mug, he’s sitting up and talking about the blog post he wants to write tonight.

It’s nice, but Kent kind of feels like there’s an elephant in the room, because he doesn’t really know what the two of them are doing. Tomas said, two weeks ago, that he didn’t want it to be just a one-off, and Kent thinks he knows what that means, but he doesn’t feel as sure about it as he’d like. He leans against Tomas’ side, and Tomas slides an arm around him and pulls him in close.

“Hey, you wanna come over to my place for dinner the day after tomorrow?” Tomas asks.

Kent goes over his schedule in his head. “Yeah,” he says. “Is that like… Uh, a date?” The conversation feels very middle school all of a sudden.

“If you want,” Tomas says, and he sounds a little uncertain.

“Yeah,” Kent says, and then, because he has no idea how to explain all the ways he feels about Tomas, “Can I kiss you?”

Tomas turns and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> French:  
> “T’es bien?” = You okay?  
> “J’vais v’nir” = I’m gonna come  
> “J’veux dire” = I mean  
> “Est-ce que je t’ai fait oublier l’Anglais? C’est okay, j’sais que je suis incroyable.” = Did I make you forget English? It’s okay, I know I’m amazing. (Kent, you little shit.)  
> “Ferme-la” = Shut up  
> “À bientôt” = see you later  
> “Y’é quelle heure et pourquoi t’es reveillé” = What time is it and why are you awake  
> “C’est juste moi” = it’s just me  
> “T’es fatiguant” = you’re a pain / you menace   
> “C’est okay, minou,” = it’s okay, kitty (“minou” is a fairly common term of endearment)
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: Smut, mostly. Also some fluff. This week: First dates, roadies, telling your best friend stuff that you should've told her earlier, and sneaking around. Also: More smut. 
> 
> We're a day early this week. Happy Easter!
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

The last time Kent went to Tomas’ place, it was to tell him he wasn’t going to change his mind—and to rile him up. He’s been here countless times before that, of course. But for some reason, he finds himself glancing around as he crosses the street from his car to Tomas’ building. There’s barely anyone around, and those who are aren’t paying any attention to him. Even if he got recognized, it wouldn’t be a problem. He’s been here before to see a friend, and that’s what he could say if someone asked what he was here for. Sure, he’s carrying a bottle of wine, but people can bring wine to friends, right? Besides, nobody is actually going to ask him where he’s going. Why would they?

When he’s under the poorly lit awning of the apartment complex and reaches up to ring the doorbell, he finds his hands are shaking. He clenches and unclenches his fist, and feels a little better.

He only has to wait a few seconds after ringing the doorbell before he hears Tomas’ voice through the intercom. “Hi,” Tomas says.

“Hey,” Kent replies. At least he sounds normal. He doesn’t really know what the fuck is wrong with him. He’s just here to see Tomas, and he wants that more than anything. On the plus side, he feels a bit better once the door has buzzed and he’s inside.

Tomas is already holding open the front door, and the sight of him smiling momentarily takes Kent’s breath away. A moment later the door is closed and they’re alone where nobody can see them.

“I brought wine,” Kent says. He means to be smoother about it, seductive maybe, but he’s still mostly thinking about how amazing Tomas looks. He’s wearing his contacts today. Kent really likes Tomas’ glasses, but he also really likes being able to see the dark brown of his eyes more clearly.

“Lovely,” Tomas says. He takes the bottle, sets it aside, and steps into Kent’s space until they’re chest to chest. “This okay?” he says, reaching up to cup Kent’s cheek, and Kent can only nod.

Tomas kisses him, and for the first time they actually manage to keep it somewhat brief and chaste. Kent can still feel arousal course through him. He never realized that ten years of almost-celibacy were going to result in this kind of hair-trigger, but then he didn’t think he would ever have the opportunity to kiss someone he was in love with.

“I made pasta. It’s whole-wheat, lots of veggies and chicken, so your nutritionist will approve,” Tomas says. He grabs Kent’s hand and pulls him to the kitchen.

Tomas is holding his hand. He’s completely casual about it, too. Kent is pretty sure he was hungry a minute ago, but now he feels like his stomach has flipped upside down. Weirdly enough, the feeling isn’t unpleasant. He squeezes Tomas’ hand and Tomas squeezes back.

A few minutes later, they’re sitting at the table, eating pasta that is surprisingly good despite the laundry list of things that Kent would put in pasta but which Tomas vehemently refuses to eat.

They talk about the start of the season, and then about a movie that’s coming out next week, and then Tomas’ friend’s new job. After eating, they bicker for a while over whether Kent should clear the table (because Tomas made the dinner) or Tomas should do it (because Kent is a guest). They end up loading the dishwasher together, and it’s quiet and domestic and there’s warm contentment spreading through all of Kent’s limbs.

Once the dishes are done, they end up on the couch. Kent only hesitates a moment before shuffling close to Tomas and resting his head on his shoulder. Tomas pulls him closer, his fingers warm against Kent’s arm. He traces a little figure-eight pattern over Kent’s bicep. It’s soft and soothing. Kent has had just enough wine to feel especially warm and comfortable.

It’s quiet for a moment. Kent thinks he should maybe say something. Ask what they’re doing, ask what Tomas wants.

He says the first thing that comes to mind, which turns out to be, “I’m not going to come out.”

Tomas’ fingers still against Kent’s skin, and he instantly wishes he’d thought before speaking. “I know,” Tomas says after a moment. “Or at least, I figured that isn’t on the table right now.”

Does Tomas expect him to come out later on? Kent is hit by a flash of memory, an article he’d seen on Tomas’ blog months ago, about all the good someone could do by coming out. He swallows down a sudden wave of nausea.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Zimms—Jack—he said he knows guys. Players. Who are, you know...” He trails off.

“You talked to Zimmermann?” Tomas says. “I thought you and he…” He trails off uncertainly.

“Hooked up in the Q?” Kent says. It’s easier to say about than he thought it would be, even though he’s never told anyone. “Yeah, I mean, I hadn’t talked to him in a while, but I—” He pauses, not sure if he should mention the giant freak-out he had, the day after Tomas made him confess. It’s kind of embarrassing, and he feels better now, doesn’t he? “Uh, I figured maybe he had advice, or whatever. Anyway, he said there’s more guys he knows about, who aren’t out, but they still, you know. Date guys.”

“Okay,” Tomas says. “Is that—Do you want that?”

Kent twists his neck and reaches up a bit to press a kiss to Tomas’ neck, just below his ear. “Yeah,” he says. “I wanna date you. Kind of a lot.”

Tomas shivers. “Good,” he says, sounding a little breathless. “Me too.”

“Even when I’m not, you know... When I’m not out?” Kent asks.

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “I…” He’s quiet for a little while. “I’ve done it before,” he says. “Date someone who wasn’t out to a lot of people, I mean. It’s… I know why you’re making this choice. Especially when everything’s new, for you. I want to support you in that.”

“Okay,” Kent says, though there’s a pit of tension in his stomach that he can’t really explain. The silence quickly grows unbearable, so he says, “I might tell Swoops,” even though he isn’t sure yet that he should.

“That’s good,” Tomas says immediately, squeezing Kent’s shoulder. Kent relaxes a little at the pressure. He feels kind of weird, like he’s not all the way in his body, but it helps to be cuddled up so close to Tomas.

“Yeah,” he says. “It was… It was Zimms’ idea, I guess. And Swoops is—he’s—I think he’s…” He doesn’t know what to say. Swoops is his best friend, and he’s always saying the Aces should do more to support _Hockey Is For Everyone_ , so he’s got to be okay with Kent, right?

“Jeff’s great,” Tomas says. “I think he’ll be glad you told him, if you do.”

For some reason, the ‘if’ helps Kent relax a little.  “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I—I will.”

They’re quiet for a little while, and then Tomas says, “How do you feel about me telling Émilie?”

Kent has to make an effort not to tense up so much that Tomas can feel it. Émilie is Tomas’ best friend, so if Kent’s going to tell Swoops, it makes sense that Tomas would want to tell her.

He takes a deep breath—quietly, because there’s no reason to be weird about this. “She wouldn’t tell anyone, right?” Because if Émilie told someone else, and then that person told one other person—rumors spread fast, he knows, and Kent is famous, it only takes one ‘did you hear about…’ in the wrong place at the wrong time, and—

Tomas is talking, and he should probably listen. “—very trustworthy,” Tomas is saying.

“All right,” Kent says. He takes another deep breath. He’s going to tell Swoops, and Tomas is going to tell Émilie, and it’s going to be fine. “Let me know how it goes.”

“Okay,” Tomas says, and he sounds happier now, so that’s good.

Tomas pushes his fingers into Kent’s hair. Kent can’t help the little “Ohh” that he lets out. In response, Tomas massages little circles into his scalp, and Kent thinks he could definitely die happy right now.

  
         -------------  


“You wanna stay the night?” Tomas says, a lot later. Kent isn’t really sure what time it is. They’re still stretched out on the couch and it’s been a while since either of them has said anything. Kent’s lying back against Tomas, and he doesn’t really want to move, ever, though the prospect of moving to a bed doesn’t seem so bad. He certainly doesn’t want to get back into his car.

He can’t help but think of the next morning, when he’ll have to leave. His car is parked nearby; low odds of running into someone who’d recognize him before he made it there. And if someone sees him, he can say he and Tomas got drunk and it was no longer safe to drive, so he crashed here.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment, letting himself curl a little closer to Tomas.

Tomas runs his hand all the way up Kent’s arm, along his shoulder and neck until he can tilt Kent’s face up and kiss him. His lips are gentle, but Kent still feels a surge of arousal course through him almost instantly. He’s not sure what Tomas wants, though. There’s something soft and tender in the atmosphere, here in the dim light in Tomas’ cozy apartment. He doesn’t want to disturb that. He’s had time since yesterday morning to get somewhat embarrassed about how his body reacted to Tomas’ touch. He hadn’t even been able to warn Tomas before coming in his mouth, for fuck’s sake.

Tomas kisses him again. It’s still tender, but he also slides his other hand down Kent’s torso until he can run his fingers over the exposed skin of Kent’s side where his shirt has ridden up.

“Ah,” Kent huffs at the unexpected feeling of Tomas’ fingertips on his skin. God, it feels _so good_.

“Okay?” Tomas asks against his lips.

“Yeah, but…” Kent breathes out slowly, trying to get his body under control. Tomas leans back a little, giving him fractionally more space as he waits for an answer. Kent rests his head on Tomas’ shoulder so he doesn’t get a crick in his neck. It has the added advantage of not having to look Tomas in the eye.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” Tomas says. He’s still absentmindedly tracing patterns on Kent’s bare skin with his finger. Kent isn’t sure whether to ask him to keep going forever, or push his hand away so he can string two thoughts together.

“Fuck,” Kent mutters. “I want to. I just…” He can feel himself going red, and fuck, since when does he _blush_? “Do _you_ want to?” he says eventually. “This isn’t just because I…” _am a needy little shit?_ His mind finishes, but he doesn’t say that out loud.

“Because you what?” Tomas says, instead of just answering the question, which is just perfect. His hand has stilled now, which in retrospect is definitely not what Kent wanted.

He digs his nails into his palm. “Because I’m fucking desperate for it?” he bites out.

Tomas is silent behind him for a few seconds. “So you respond more strongly than I do,” he says. “That doesn’t bother me.”

Kent doesn’t want to be having this conversation. The worst part is that he’s also still fucking turned on, because his body hates him. “Yeah, okay,” he says.

Tomas sighs quietly behind him. “Listen,” he says. “I don’t need to tell you that you’re gorgeous. And when I kiss you or touch you and you lose control, it’s incredibly hot, okay? I like it. I like knowing I can make you feel good. I like seeing you turned on. I like hearing how you respond. It’s an incredible turn-on, in fact. It’s not something I put up with because I feel sorry for you, or whatever you think. And I’m more than capable of saying no if I’m ever not in the mood. So when I ask you if something is okay, it’s not because I don’t want it, it’s because I’m checking to see if it’s what _you_ want. Because I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything, even if your body responds.”

Kent still feels like his face is on fire, but… “Yeah, okay,” he says again, and he can hear how much more sincere it sounds than the last one. “Okay. Sorry.”

Tomas presses a kiss to his cheek. “So,” he says, “I would really like to take you to bed and get you off and for you to get me off and then sleep. But I’m also happy to go straight to the sleeping, or for you to go home if that’s what you prefer.”

And, yeah, with those three options spread out before him, it’s not hard to choose. He pushes off from Tomas’ chest and twists around so he can straddle Tomas’ thighs and meet his eyes. “So,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “My hot body turns you on, huh?”

Tomas chuckles, but Kent can see his eyes flick down to Kent’s chest and to where his t-shirt rode up even further when he turned around. “Yes, it does,” he says eventually, his voice breathy, and that’s all Kent needs to hear before he kisses him.

It’s many minutes later that Kent remembers something about a bedroom. Tomas’ hands are on his hips, thumbs rubbing circles into his skin just above the waistband of his jeans. He’s spent a while with his lips on Kent’s neck, drawing breathy moans from Kent. Now they’ve gone back to kissing, Tomas’ tongue rubbing against Kent’s in a way that sends tingles all the way to the tips of his fingers. He’s been hard almost since the beginning, and his jeans are growing ever more uncomfortable, but it’s hard to think about that when the rest of him feels like he’s floating.

“Did, ah, did you mention a bed?” he says, when Tomas pulls back a little.

“Mmhmm,” Tomas hums. He brings his hands up to swipe his thumbs over Kent’s cheekbones. “I did. You wanna get off me?”

“Not as much as I wanna get you off,” Kent says, though the effect of the quip is a little lost since he’s still mostly breathless.

Tomas laughs, pushing at Kent’s chest until he reluctantly clambers off and stands up. “Come on, this way,” he says, grabbing Kent’s hand. He pulls him along down the hallway and into the bedroom, flicking on the light and then turning back to Kent.

His bedroom has off-white walls and dark blue carpet on the floor. There’s a framed vintage Habs poster on one wall and a bookcase in the corner. Kent is more interested in the bed, though, which looks soft and inviting with its navy blue sheets.

“Can I take your shirt off?” Tomas asks, drawing Kent’s attention back to him.

“Yeah,” Kent says. He raises his arms and lets Tomas pull his shirt up and over his head. Tomas’ eyes slide down his chest, and Kent can’t resist the urge to flex his pectoral muscles just to show off. Tomas shakes his head at him, but he’s laughing, so Kent counts it as a win. “You too,” he says, and Tomas pulls his own shirt over his head as well.  He reaches for Kent’s jeans as soon as he’s tossed his shirt aside.

Kent steps forward so he can kiss Tomas as Tomas fumbles with his fly. Kissing is even better when he can press his bare chest to Tomas’ and feel his heartbeat against his own.

“This doesn’t make it easier,” Tomas says against his lips, struggling to undo Kent’s jeans.

“Mm,” Kent hums, stepping even closer as he licks his way into Tomas’ mouth.

Eventually, Tomas does get Kent’s jeans undone. He pushes him away a little so Kent can step out of his clothes, Tomas taking off his own pants as he does so. When they’re both naked, he steps back into Kent’s space and pulls him close.

Kent isn’t prepared for how his dick slides against Tomas’. He lets out a whimper and barely resists the urge to thrust his hips forward. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, and his voice comes out closer to a whine. He bites his lip, trying desperately to get himself under control. It’s embarrassing—but he finds nothing but lust and admiration in Tomas’ eyes when he meets his gaze.

“ _Crisse_ , _t’es… Mon dieu_.” Tomas seems a little lost for words himself.

“Bed,” Kent says. “Come on, fuck, _fuck_ , I want… shit.” He does move his hips then, just a bit, just to feel the friction.

“ _Qu’est-ce que tu veux?”_ Tomas asks, stepping forward so Kent has to step back toward the bed.

“God,” Kent says. “I want, fuck, want you inside me, I wanna…”

Tomas’ breathing speeds up at the suggestion. He swallows before he says, “Yeah? You like that?”

Kent takes another step back, feels the bed behind his knees, and lets himself fall down on it. There are glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, which is fucking adorable and Kent definitely wants to hear the story behind that, just not right now.

Tomas has followed him and is on his knees just beside Kent’s hip. “You sure?” he says, his hand trailing down Kent’s chest.

“Fuck, yeah,” Kent says, but then his brain catches up with him and he says, “Ah, fuck, actually no, game tomorrow, I can’t… I haven’t done it, not since forever. I’ll feel it tomorrow.” He’s suddenly acutely regretful that he waited to get his shit together until the season’s already started.

“Oh,” Tomas says, frowning in thought. “You wanna top, then?”

_That_ suggestion takes his breath away. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, heart-felt. “You bottom?”

Tomas leans over him to kiss him. “Either works for me,” he says when they break apart again. “How about you?”

“Ah,” Kent says. “I…” It takes a moment to get his vocal chords to cooperate. “I’ve never topped, but—Yeah. I can, yeah, I… That’s.”

Tomas smiles at him and reaches over to his bedside table, coming away a moment later with a bottle of lube. “Can I ride you?” he says.

Kent barely swallows his moan at the thought. “I don’t know, can you?” he says weakly.

Tomas rolls his eyes at him as he snaps open the bottle and spreads lube on his fingers. “That was terrible.” He leans over to kiss Kent, his weight on one hand as he reaches behind himself with the other.

Kent lets his hands wander over Tomas’ body as they kiss. He has to resist the urge to touch himself—the sight of Tomas above him, his features washed over with pleasure, is incredible.

Tomas is letting out little huffs of breath as he fingers himself. “Need help?” Kent says against his lips. He runs his fingers over Tomas’ collarbones. He keeps his touch light, teasing, because it makes Tomas’ breathing stutter when he does.

Tomas shakes his head. “ _Non, j’vais bien_ ,” he says breathlessly. “Just, ah, keep doing that.”

“What, this?” Kent says innocently. He makes his touch even lighter, barely-there. Tomas lets out a shuddering breath.

“ _Crisse_ , you’re a menace,” Tomas says after a moment. Kent smirks at him. Tomas leans down to kiss his neck, which wipes the smirk off Kent’s face pretty fast.

Tomas sits up a little while later, reaching for the bedside table again. He rummages in the drawer for a second.

Kent lies back, waits, and tries to calm himself down a little, but he doesn’t think he’s doing a great job of it. He’s so turned on it’s unreal, just from making out for so long, and Tomas is going to _ride him_ , and he can’t—

“You good?” Tomas asks. He’s on his knees beside Kent again, holding a condom and the lube.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Just, fuck, I’m gonna come in like ten seconds when you…” He trails off. At least this time he can blame the heat in his face on his arousal.

Tomas looks up from where he was fumbling with the condom wrapper. “You look amazing when you come,” he says. “And there’s always next time.”

Kent huffs out a laugh. “True. Okay, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, but he feels a little less embarrassed now at the prospect of coming way before he means to, and a little more settled in his skin.

Tomas holds up the condom and says, “Can I?”

At Kent’s nod, he reaches over and rolls the condom over him, following it up with a generous amount of lube. He slides his hand up and down to spread it. Kent bites his lip, does his best to keep his breathing even.

Tomas leans over to kiss him again, and then he swings a leg over Kent to straddle him. “Still good?” he asks as he puts his hands on Kent’s chest.

“Yeah, yeah, get on with it,” Kent says.

Then Tomas is sinking down on him. “Ahh, ah, _shit_ ,” Kent gasps. It’s hot and tight and overwhelming, and it’s so good he never wants it to stop. He can feel his toes curling. “Oh god, Tomas, Tomas, fuck, feels so good,” he babbles, not really sure what he’s saying. He wants to close his eyes, focus on how great it feels, but he also doesn’t want to stop looking. Tomas looks amazing, his head tilted back, mouth half-open in pleasure as he lowers himself down. He holds still when Kent is all the way inside him, a shudder going through his body.

For a moment, they’re both catching their breath. Kent has to fight the urge to move his hips. He tries to get his body to calm down, with very little success.

“Thinking unsexy thoughts?” Tomas says teasingly after a moment.

“Hey, fuck you,” Kent huffs without heat. “I don’t want to come in two seconds.”

“I told you, it’s okay,” Tomas says.

“Yeah, well, I—Ah,” he cuts off when Tomas shifts a little. “I know it’s okay,” he says. “I just, god, you feel so good. I want it to last,” he admits.

He sees Tomas’ adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Kent,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. “You— _merde_. Can I move? Tell me I can move.”

Kent nods, and Tomas lifts up a little and then moves back down. Kent moans helplessly. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or what any part of his body is doing, for that matter.

Tomas settles into a rhythm, slow but not so slow that Kent has any chance to catch his breath. He really does want it to last, but he can already feel himself getting close to the edge. Tomas looks gorgeous as he moves above him. He’s stroking himself slowly, and Kent somehow has the presence of mind to reach out and tangle his fingers with Tomas’.

“I’m so,” he pants. “I’m so—fucking close, I can’t, god.”

Tomas bends down to press their mouths together. “You want, ahh, want me to pause?” he asks when he’s kissed him. If his unsteady voice is any indication, he’s not that far behind.

“No,” Kent gasps. “Fuck, no, don’t stop, don’t—fuck, Tomas, I’m, I’m—” He breaks off to moan. Then Tomas twists his hips a little and Kent’s over the edge. “Ah!” he moans, his hips arching off the bed as his climax washes over him.

When Kent slumps back down onto the bed, panting as he comes down from his high, Tomas stills above him. His hand, Kent’s fingers still intertwined with his, speeds up on his dick. Kent still feels like he’s halfway in his orgasm, feels overstimulated in the best way with Tomas still hot and tight around him. He’s still letting out breathy moans when Tomas clenches around him and spills over both their hands.

They stay still for a little while as their breathing slows down, and then Tomas lifts himself off and Kent reaches down to take off the condom and tie it up. Tomas grabs a box of tissues and wipes the worst of the mess away, though Kent is still definitely a little sticky when they’ve thrown out the tissues and the condom. He’s happy to ignore that when Tomas lies back down beside him, though. Kent reaches over and pulls Tomas close, Tomas’ back against his chest. He hums against Tomas’ neck.

“Good?” Tomas asks.

Kent can’t help but laugh a little. “Did anything about that suggest that I wasn’t having the best time of my life?” he says. That’s maybe a little bit too clingy and not as aloof as he’d like to be, but hey, he did just have an amazing orgasm and he’s still a little out of it.

Tomas chuckles. “ _Bien_ ,” he says quietly.

“ _Est-ce que ça t’as plu?”_ Kent says.

“ _C’etait super,”_ Tomas says, his voice a little sleepy. “ _T’as été merveilleux.”_

Kent smiles, pressing his face against Tomas shoulder. “Thanks,” he whispers. “You too. In case there was any doubt.”

Tomas turns around in Kent’s arms until they’re facing each other and kisses him. It’s soft, and Kent can feel Tomas smiling against his lips. He keeps his eyes closed even when Tomas pulls away.

“Let’s sleep,” Tomas says, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then to his forehead.

Kent basks in the warmth and comfort of it, of the bare skin of Tomas’ chest and stomach and legs against his, of the soft touch of his lips to his face. “Yeah,” he says.

Tomas twists back around until he’s settled as the little spoon, and Kent curls tightly around him. It’s only a few minutes before he falls asleep.

  
         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

Time for another roadie! After our roadie we’ll have a longer stretch of home games. But first, Nashville and St Louis, here we come!

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 1d

Last season the Aces had several long roadies. This season’s schedule there’s more short ones & there are a lot of road games in Oct/Nov. Not sure what the players prefer.

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

I love my job, but why do roadies involve airplanes? Pro tip for other nervous flyers: don’t become a sports reporter.

 

**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

On the plane next to @kvparson90 and he’s trying to tweet. Send help.

 

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 1d

they say i need to tweet more & not just repost pictures of kit from instagram

|

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 1d

so heres a picture of my cat thats not on ig fr everyone who just follows me here

[PHOTO]

|

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 1d

also go follow me & kit on insta

|

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 1d

& also thanks everyone for the support during the start of the season & on the upcoming roadie, shld be fun!

|

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 1d

oh and @swoopthereitis my twitter game is stronger than urs man

|

**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

Sure buddy.

 

**Nashville Predators** @PredsNHL · 1d

We welcome the #LVAces to SMASHVILLE for tonight’s game! #AcesVsPredators

 

**Nashville Predators** @PredsNHL · 22h

1-0 #Preds lead at the end of 20 minutes of play. Let’s hear it in Bridgestone! #AcesVsPredators

 

**Nashville Predators** @PredsNHL · 22h

2-2 #Preds and #LVAces are even at the end of the 2nd period here in Smashville. #AcesVsPredators

 

**Nashville Predators** @PredsNHL · 21h

4-2 #Preds take the win. Crowd going wild #AcesVsPredators

[VIDEO]

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 21h

Final score is 4-2 here @BrdgstoneArena. First Aces goal tonight was one for the highlight reels from @BeckNewton95 & @kvparson90

 

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 20h

@BeckNewton95 nice wrister

|

**Beck Newton** @BeckNewton95 · 20h

Nice assist :D

 

**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 20h

Look at my boy all grown up and tweeting without PR having to remind him @kvparson90

|

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 20h

hey @swoopthereitis wanna see some pictures of my cat

[PHOTO] [PHOTO] [PHOTO]

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 19h

My recap of #AcesvsPredators t.co/ujHloPEO

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 19h

Tomas Nadeau recaps our game against Nashville t.co/ujHloPEO

  
         -------------  


**Tomas [5:42 pm]:** I’m going to call Émilie in a bit

**Tomas [5:43 pm]:** She’s going to grill me for all the details, wish me luck

**Kent [5:47 pm]:** ur gonna tell her not to tell any1 right?

**Tomas [5:48 pm]:** Yeah I will but she wouldn’t anyway

**Kent [5:48 pm]:** yeah ok

**Kent [5:49 pm]:** gd luck

  
         -------------

 

_“Yo!”_ Émilie’s voice is chipper. There’s a rush on the line that makes Tomas suspect she’s got him on speaker; maybe she’s driving _. “Are you calling to complain about the Habs game last night? Because dude—”_

_“I know, please don’t. I can’t. My poor heart.”_

Émilie’s groan is tinny through the speaker. _“Is it too early to just call it? The season is cancelled, everyone can just go home.”_

_“Ye of little faith!”_ Tomas gasps. _“We’re one good trade away from being a cup contender.”_

_“Mmhmm,”_ Émilie hums, clearly unconvinced. _“Whatever you gotta tell yourself to sleep at night.”_

_“Yeah, yeah.”_ Tomas rolls over so he’s lying on his back on his hotel bed. They’re only a month or so into the season. He’s already sick of the Habs losing, and he’s already sick of roadies. Airplanes and hotels are two of his least favorite things. _“Hey listen, you got a minute?”_

_“Of course,”_ she says, and she immediately sounds more serious, like she thinks there’s something wrong.

_“It’s nothing bad,”_ he hastens to say, before she gets really worried.

_“Mmkay,”_ she says. _“What’s up?”_

_“So,”_ he says. “ _I’ve been seeing someone.”_

_“Oh my god!”_ she exclaims, clearly delighted. “ _Since when? You’ve been holding out on me!”_

_“Uh.”_ He has a bit, actually. Time was he would have practically live-texted the whole saga of his weeks of build-up and eventual hook up with Kent. But this thing with Kent, it feels important and special and delicate in a way that Tomas can’t describe. _“Yeah, it’s… Uh, it’s complicated.”_

_“Oh no,”_ she says, but there’s amusement in her voice. _“Tell me everything. What’s his name?”_

He takes a deep breath. _“Yeah, so, I’m dating Kent.”_

There’s a couple of seconds of stunned silence. _“Calisse, seriously?”_ Émilie says. _“Kent. Kent as in Kent Parson. Both_ the _Kent Parson, and also that guy who you used to watch TV with sometimes, Kent Parson?”_

He winces. This conversation would have been a lot easier if he’d kept her more up to date on the whole Kent Thing. Back when he thought Kent was straight, hanging out with him was a bad idea, and he knew it. And he knew Émilie would know it and also tell him so. _“Yeah,”_ Tomas rubs at his neck. _“So, I maybe downplayed that a bit...”_

_“Oh, really?”_ Émilie sounds torn between amusement and irritation.

_“Right,”_ he says. _“So we maybe were hanging out more often than was technically a good idea when I thought he was straight? But he’s not. Straight, I mean, so… It worked out?”_

On the phone, he thinks he hears Émilie pull in somewhere and cut the engine. _“Okay honey, you better start talking.”_

It takes a long time to get Émilie up to speed. From the increasing regularity of their TV dates, to the _Out_ article (he skirts this point a little. Some part of him doesn’t think Kent would want Émilie to know about his panic attacks). It takes even longer with Émilie’s constant interruptions. _(“The Out article was_ weeks _ago, what the hell?!” “Wait, so he came over just to blue-ball you, are you kidding me with this guy?_ ”) Eventually, he gets to last week, and his rapid succession of mind-blowing orgasms.

_“Well,”_ Émilie says when he’s finished. _“Not gonna lie, I’m still wrapping my head around the bit where Kent Parson is hot for your dick.”_

Heat rushes to Tomas’ cheeks. _“Same, to be honest. Also, you know you can’t tell anyone about this.”_

Émilie laughs. _“No shit, really? Because this would make a great segment for next week’s Coach’s Corner.”_

And he knows she’s kidding, but, “ _Em, seriously.”_

_“Yes obviously, Tomas, I’m not an idiot. I won’t breathe a word.”_

_“Thanks.”_

_“So… he’s not planning to pull a Zimmermann, I take it?”_

Tomas shakes his head, even though she can’t see. _“Not any time soon, at least. Maybe never, I don’t know.”_

_“Damn,”_ she says. _“You sure you’re okay with that?”_

_“Yeah?”_ He’s not sure what to make of her tone—incredulous? Disapproving?

She pauses, then says, _“Because you know that means you’re re-closeting yourself, right?”_

_“I’m out,”_ he protests. _“I have a blog about how gay I am. Pretty sure that doesn’t change just because people won’t know I’m dating him.”_

She chuckles briefly, but her voice is serious when she says, “ _Yeah, I know. I’m just worried about you, I guess.”_

_“I’m sorry,”_ he says. _“I should have told you sooner. It’s just… It’s been a lot. But I didn’t mean—You know you’re my best friend, right?”_

_“Flattery will get you everywhere,”_ Émilie says, and he can hear her smile through the phone. _“Look, this sounds great—congrats on the sex and all.”_

_“Gee, thanks-”_

_“I just don’t want to see you hide yourself away because that’s what he needs, if it’s going to make you miserable.”_

_“Don’t worry,”_ he says. _“That’s not what going on here, I promise. You know Sameer was closeted when he dated me, and that went fine. And Russel was out, and that relationship went not fine—”_ He’d basically fled Montreal immediately after that particular clusterfuck of a breakup, which was how he’d ended up with the Wild in Minnesota in the first place. _“So I don’t think it’s related.”_

_“Russel was an asshole,”_ Émilie says. _“And Sameer wasn’t a famous athlete. Just… be careful, yeah? I don’t want you to get hurt. And for fuck’s sake just keep me updated! I can’t believe how long you’ve been sitting on this!”_

If Tomas points out that he held off on telling her until after he’d checked that Kent was okay with it, that might… prove her point somewhat. Besides, she knows now, so it’s fine _. “My bad. Expect regular updates on my suddenly extremely fun sex life.”_

_“Promises, promises.”_

_“Besides, I’m back in Montreal next month for Sean’s wedding. We’ll see each other soon. And then you can grill me more.”_

Émilie laughs. _“Oh honey, if you think I’m going to wait a whole month to grill you more, you’ve got another thing coming.”_

  
         -------------

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1d

We just landed in St Louis for tomorrow’s game. Bring it on, @StLouisBlues!

|

**St Louis Blues** @StLouisBlues · 1d

We’re ready.

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

Watching #HabsvsSabres with @SwoopThereItIs in St Louis. Should be fun.

[PHOTO]

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

WHAT was that pass??? #HabsvsSabres

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

Are you kidding me with these sloppy line changes.

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

YES!!

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

@SwoopThereItIs is laughing at me. The rest of this bar is just weirded out.

|

**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

Don’t worry, I’m sure they’re secretly also laughing at you.

 

**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

Also @TomasNadeau, has nobody ever told you it’s very rude to tweet when you have company?

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

Because you haven’t been in the Aces group chat at all since this game started.

|

**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

Touché.

 

**Tommy Black** @Sportsfan647 · 1d

Hey @TomasNadeau and @SwoopThereItIs are you literally just tweeting at each other while sitting next to each other at a bar?

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

Yup.

|

**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 1d

Yup.

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

So that game went better than I expected, but their line changes still require serious work.

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 1d

Next blog post is going to be Habs-focused, in case anyone was expecting anything different.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 6h

Watch the pre-game interviews with @Damian_Scotty and @kvparson90 t.co/eyfFIIOep t.co/NMGjgUIe

 

**Scotty** @Damian_Scott · 5h

Always great to be back in St Louis where I grew up! And great to have parents & sisters at the game tonight!!

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3h

7 minutes into the game, we’re down by one. Come on guys! #AcesVsBlues

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

Keller gets his first goal of the season on an assist from Garber. We’ve evened the score at 1-1 early in the second period. #AcesVsBlues

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

Parson scores on a breakaway! Aces charge ahead at 2-1. #AcesVsBlues

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

3-1! Jeff Troy gets his third point this season as he delivers the assist to @kvparson90’s second goal of the night #AcesVsBlues

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

Blues cut our lead in half with a wrister from Tarasenko seconds before the buzzer marks the end of the 2nd period #AcesVsBlues

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1h

4-2 and a hat trick for @kvparson90 as he scores on the powerplay! #AcesVsBlues

 

**Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 1h

Omg!! Hatty!!! Kent I love you so much!

**NHL** @NHL · 1h

HAT TRICK @kvparson90!

[GIF]

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1h

The Blues go open net with a little over two minutes to play #AcesVsBlues

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1h

An open net goal by Yevgeni Tschida and we’re up 5-2! #AcesVsBlues

 

**St Louis Blues** @StLouisBlues · 1h

There’s the final buzzer. Game ends at 5-2 for the Aces.

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 14m

Game recap #AcesVsBlues t.co/nbLMhejA

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 12m

Tomas Nadeau recaps #AcesVsBlues: What are the core ingredients of an Aces scoring chance? t.co/nbLMhejA

 

**NHL** @NHL · 2m

Kent Parson’s season was already off to a good start. Tonight he scores his 13th career hat trick, delivers a win for the Aces, and takes over as league leader in goals!

[VIDEO]

  
         -------------  


**Tomas [11:33 pm]:** I’m sexually attracted to hat tricks suddenly

**Kent [11:35 pm]:** what room nr

**Tomas [11:36 pm]:** 506

**Kent [11:36 pm]:** 2 mins

  
         -------------  


Kent looks both exhausted and keyed up when Tomas opens the door to his knock. He’s in sweatpants and a well-worn t-shirt. As soon as he catches sight of Tomas, he smirks. “Hey,” he says breathlessly as he steps inside.

“Hey,” Tomas says, crowding him up against the wall. He pushes the door shut behind them with his foot.

“Hey,” Kent says again. He reaches out for Tomas, but a hesitant look crosses his face before he turns and twists the lock on the door. Then he grabs Tomas’ shirt with both hands, pulls him closer and kisses him.

“Those were amazing goals,” Tomas says a little while later, when they’ve pulled back to catch their breaths. He drags Kent along to the bed, and Kent lets himself fall onto the sheets. Tomas hops up after him, settling on his knees by Kent’s side.

“I know,” Kent says as he stretches out on his back. He closes his eyes for a moment, clearly dead tired, but then he opens them again and smirks at Tomas. “I liked the first one best.”

“The breakaway?” Tomas leans down to kiss the smirk off his lips. “Yeah, it was great.”

Kent reaches up to curl his fingers around the back of Tomas’ neck as they kiss. God, Tomas has missed him. They’ve seen each other around everywhere, but with the rest of the Aces never far away, they’re limited to slightly-too-long stares and texting. Tomas knew what he was signing up for, but he’s still immeasurably glad that they’re alone and he doesn’t have to keep his hands off Kent anymore.

After a moment, Tomas leans back and tugs at Kent’s arm until he sits up and Tomas can pull his shirt over his head. Kent lets himself fall back onto the bed as soon as his shirt is off.

“Damn,” Tomas says, because he just noticed the giant bruise that starts on Kent’s lower ribs and stretches down below the waistband of his sweatpants. It looks pretty gruesome, which isn’t helped by the fact that Kent’s dark tattoo swirls all over it.

“Oh, yeah,” Kent says, when he sees where Tomas is looking. “It’s from the Preds game. Hard check.” One corner of his mouth lifts when he catches sight of the worried look on Tomas’ face. “Season just started for real, better get used to it,” he says.

“Yeah, I know,” Tomas says absently. He trails his fingers over the purple-blue splotches and feels Kent shiver. Kent’s eyes flutter shut again, a blush slowly deepening on his cheeks and down his neck as Tomas lets his hands wander over his skin. The lights in the room are dim—maybe the hotel should invest in some better bulbs—but Tomas still can’t get enough of the sight.

After a moment, Kent pulls him down for another kiss, running his hands over Tomas’ shoulders and gently scratching through the short hair at the nape of his neck. Tomas feels the slow, warm build of arousal in the pit of his stomach. He kisses Kent’s jaw and then the spot under his ear that makes him let out a quiet, breathless moan.

“You, ah, you should take your shirt off,” Kent says, and Tomas sits up to pull it over his head. Kent wastes no time getting his hands all over Tomas’ chest, tracing the outline of his collarbones and sliding his fingers down until his hands are resting on either side of Tomas’ waist.

“What do you want?” Tomas asks.

“You,” Kent says unhelpfully.

Tomas smiles and kisses him. “Okay, well,” he says. “I think a hat trick deserves a reward. But only if you warn me before you come, this time.” He’s not always a huge fan of giving head, but Kent’s responsiveness the last time had been pretty amazing, and he wants to see and hear and feel that again.

Kent lets out a stuttering breath when the meaning of Tomas’ words sinks in. “Fuck, okay,” he says. “I’ll—Yeah. I will.”

Tomas isn’t surprised to find that Kent is already hard when Tomas pulls down his sweatpants. He leans down to kiss Kent’s erection through his boxers, and Kent moans. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “You—Take your pants off too, wanna see you.”

Once Tomas is naked, Kent leans up on one elbow and wraps his free hand around Tomas’ dick. He gets him quickly from half-hard to all the way there while Tomas tries to keep his breathing under control. Somehow, Kent has already figured out way too much about what he likes. Apparently, between all Kent’s intense responses to being touched himself, he’s paying plenty of attention to Tomas’ reactions too.

Eventually Tomas tangles his fingers through Kent’s and pulls his hand away, nudging at Kent’s shoulder until Kent lies back down. Tomas hooks his thumbs under the waistband of Kent’s boxers and pulls them down. He takes his sweet time, until Kent says, “Hurry the fuck up,” and Tomas presses a kiss to the inside of his knee as he slides his underwear all the way off.

He settles between Kent’s legs and slides his hands slowly up Kent’s thighs. When he bends down to kiss Kent’s inner thigh, Kent sighs in frustration. Tomas smirks and kisses his other thigh, then his stomach, trailing his fingers down the V of his hips.

“Come on, babe, please,” Kent whines. Tomas isn’t sure if Kent meant to call him that, and he’s a little surprised at how much he likes it.

“Yeah, I’ve got you,” he says, spreading his hands on Kent’s hips. If the last time was any indication, Kent is going to have some trouble keeping still.

When he licks a broad strip along the underside of Kent’s dick, Kent lets out a whine, and Tomas watches his fists clench in the hotel sheets.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Kent moans when Tomas wraps his lips around the head of his dick. “Tomas, baby, so good, so good,” he rambles. Tomas takes him deeper, then moves up again and sucks gently on the tip. Kent moans again, his hips bucking up just a bit before he gets himself under control and holds still again.

Tomas didn’t have much of a chance, the last time, to learn what Kent likes. He works to figure it out now, listening for when the pitch of Kent’s breathless moans shifts up, when his hips move before he can stop himself. It’s not long before Kent is letting out a litany of “Fuck, Tomas, so good, Tomas Tomas Tomas…” He’s quieter than he’s been before, maybe because they’re in a hotel where there’s occasionally doors slamming in the distance. Tomas doesn’t mind—he can still keep track of what Kent likes. It’s not long after when Kent says, “ _Fuck_ , fuck, I’m close, I’m— _Fuck_.”

As soon as Tomas pulls off, Kent wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in for a bruising, desperate kiss.

“ _Touch_ me,” Kent demands when Tomas pulls back to breathe.

Tomas wraps his head around Kent’s cock. Kent must really have been close. It only takes a few firm strokes before he’s coming, his mouth going slack against Tomas’ as his body arches up. It’s incredibly hot, watching this gorgeous man come undone at Tomas’ touch. Tomas doesn’t slow his hand until Kent is whimpering, and as soon as he lets go, Kent pulls him down into another fierce kiss.

“So good,” he mumbles against Tomas’ lips, and Tomas can’t help but smile into the kiss. He grabs his discarded shirt from the foot of the bed to clean Kent up a little—he’s definitely going to regret that when he eventually has to do laundry, but that’s far enough in the future that he really doesn’t care.

“You want me to do you too?” Kent asks, as soon as his breathing has steadied out a bit.

“You sure?” Tomas asks, because god knows he’s never in the mood to give head right after he’s come. “You don’t have to just because I did.”

Kent looks at him like he’s being ridiculous. “It’s not a chore,” he says, with a little shake of his head. “Here, come on.”

Moments later, Kent has rearranged them so Tomas is sitting up against the headboard, a pillow behind his back. Kent is kneeling between his spread legs. His blond hair is a mess of tangles and cowlicks; his face is still flushed from his climax; his lower lip is swollen from where he’s bitten it almost-raw.

“What?” Kent says, when Tomas just looks.

“ _T’es magnifique,_ ” Tomas says, because—he’s just so head over heels in love with this beautiful, warm, caring man in front of him, it’s impossible not to say _something_ even if it’s way too soon to say _that._

Kent smiles at him, looking actually flattered for once instead of just self-satisfied. He reaches out and trails his fingertips from Tomas’ temple to his jaw. “You too,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Tomas says. He’s rewarded when Kent bends down and wraps his lips around the crown of his cock.

Tomas brings his hands up reflexively and slides them into Kent’s hair. Kent hums, and the sensation makes Tomas gasp, so Kent does it again, and keeps doing it as he slides his lips up and down.

He lets himself get lost in the warmth of Kent’s mouth on him, in the slick slide of Kent’s tongue over the head of his dick. Every time he tightens his hands in Kent’s hair, Kent repeats whatever he was doing just before.

“ _J’vais_ —I’m s-so close,” he says after a while, remembering a moment too late which language he wants to be speaking.

Like last time, Kent doesn’t pull off, just sucks harder, until Tomas comes with a groan. Kent swallows around him, which is as hot as it was last time.

When Tomas has caught his breath, Kent sits up and kisses him. That’s as gross as it was last time—he really doesn’t get how Kent can stand it.

“Ew,” he mumbles into the kiss, and Kent leans back to laugh at him, his eyes bright and happy. Tomas wants to see him like this every day forever. “Stop laughing at me,” he says anyway, tackling Kent to the bed so he’s the one on top and silencing him with another kiss.

Kent smiles against his lips, and then he curls in closer, wrapping around Tomas like an octopus.

“Wait, let me—” Tomas says, sitting up a little to pull the blanket over both of them.

“’m gonna fall asleep if you do that,” Kent says, nuzzling his face against Tomas’ chest.

“That’s the idea,” Tomas says. “It’s late and you played over twenty minutes tonight.”

“Yeah, but,” Kent mumbles, but he’s interrupted by a yawn. Tomas chuckles and wraps his arm around Kent’s back. “Yeah, okay,” Kent says.

“ _Fait de beaux rêves, mon minou,_ ” Tomas whispers in his ear.

“You too,” Kent mumbles, and he sounds like he’s half out already. It takes Tomas a little longer to fall asleep—it’s still a bit before his usual bedtime, even if it’s hours past Kent’s—but it’s warm and comfortable with Kent tucked against his chest.

  
         -------------  


“Hey,” Kent says quietly, nudging at Tomas’ shoulder.

Tomas blinks blearily. “ _Y’é quelle heure,”_ he mumbles. Why is he being woken up? The room is dim and his alarm hasn’t gone off and he doesn’t want to be awake.

“ _Presque cinq heures,_ ” Kent says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “ _J’vais retourner dans ma chambre. Dors un peu plus, mon chou._ ”

“Mmhmm,” Tomas mumbles. Kent chuckles in the dark, and then he kisses Tomas’ forehead. A moment later, the hotel door clicks shut behind him.

  
         -------------  


“Hey Parser! Got laid last night, huh?” Maestro yells across the hotel breakfast hall.

Kent almost drops his plate. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest. “What?” he says, but it comes out barely audible even to himself. He can’t decide, for a moment, whether he should turn and run, or make his way over to where a dozen teammates are crowded around a couple of tables.

His feet decide for him and he finds himself walking to the table, his heart in his throat. “Uh, what?” he says again, once he’s closer. He puts his plate on the table where there’s an empty chair, though he kind of feels like he might throw up, so maybe eating isn’t the best idea. Does Maestro—does he _know_? Did he see him sneak back to his room in the middle of the night? Did someone else see something, did anyone tell—

“So I was going to ask for your phone charger ‘cause I couldn’t find mine,” Maestro says, and the entire table is listening now, and Kent is genuinely concerned that he might faint because he feels really lightheaded. “But you weren’t in—and I know you weren’t asleep ‘cause you left your door open, you fucker, was the puck bunny so good that you couldn’t even lock the door behind you?”

“Scoring three times in one night isn’t enough for Parse,” Tower says, sniggering as he steals bacon off Esko’s plate. “Was she any good?”

She.

Kent drops down in his chair. “I don’t kiss and tell,” he says, but he can’t quite find his usual smirk. The guys don’t seem to notice—half of them are still mostly-asleep, anyway. He takes a deep breath and starts eating breakfast even though he still feels like he swallowed a brick.

“Dude, you always say that. At least tell us what she looked like,” Ryan says. He reaches out to snag a rasher of bacon from Kent, and Kent slaps his hand away.

“Guys, I’m trying to eat,” he says.

“Was she blonde?” Ryan says. “I bet she was blonde.”

“Nah man, Parser likes redheads,” Kimmy says, which is a conviction he’s had for years even though Kent has never given him any reason to believe it.

He rolls his eyes, but the speculations are familiar even if they’re more than a little annoying, and that’s better than what he’d dreaded when Maestro first opened his mouth. “Not blond,” he says, because they won’t stop until he says _something_. Over Kimmy’s victory crow—as if there are no hair colors besides blond and red—he continues, “Also, you stole my charger, Maestro, not cool.”

“I just borrowed it,” Maestro says with a grin. “Shouldn’t have left your door open.”

“Whatever, fuck you,” Kent grumbles, which is what his teammates expect of him, and so they move on to their re-hashing of last night’s game which Kent’s arrival had interrupted.

When he gets back to his hotel room after breakfast, his hands are still shaking. It’s fine. They don’t know, and Jack had said—Jack said other players dated guys. Nobody has to know. Nobody is going to find out.

Tomas texts him by the time they’ve made it onto the plane. Kent’s in a window seat, staring at the dark tarmac of the runway. Swoops is in the seat beside him, leaning across the aisle because he’s in a heated discussion with Sims about which is the worst US state.

**Tomas [10:13 am]:** You okay?

Nobody’s paying any attention to Kent, but he still keeps his hand half over the screen.

**Kent [10:14 am]:** yeah fine y

**Tomas [10:14 am]:** You looked kinda tired

Kent hadn’t caught more than a glimpse of Tomas this morning, across the hotel’s lounge as he was leaving breakfast. Maybe Tomas had noticed him before then.

**Kent [10:14 am]:** well u kept me up

**Tomas [10:15 am]:** I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry

Kent has just typed _me either_ when there’s a “Hey, who’re you texting?” from above him. He only barely stops himself from flinching. When he looks up, he finds Scotty leaning over the back of the seat in front of him.

“Uh. Nobody,” Kent says, and then, because he knows that’s a terrible answer, “Just tweeting. PR says I don’t do it enough.”

He pulls up Twitter in case Scotty is going to demand to see his screen, but Scotty’s already lost interest. “Cool,” he says, and turns back to whoever is in the seat beside him.

Kent stares down at his Twitter feed and wishes desperately he was still in bed with Tomas where nobody else could see him.

****  
\-------------  
  


**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 40s

st louis was fun last night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Crisse, t’es… Mon dieu." = Christ, you're... my God.  
> “Qu’est-ce que tu veux?” = what do you want?  
> “Non, j’vais bien,” = no, I'm fine
> 
> “Bien,” = good  
> “Est-ce que ça t’as plu?” = was that good for you?  
> “C’etait super. T’as été merveilleux.” = It was great. You were amazing.  
> “T’es magnifique,” = You're wonderful  
> “Fait de beaux rêves, mon minou,” = sweet dreams, sweetheart
> 
> “Y’é quelle heure,” = What time is it?  
> “Presque cinq heures. J’vais retourner dans ma chambre. Dors un peu plus, mon chou.” = About five o'clock. I'm going back to my room. Sleep some more, darling. ("Mon chou" literally means "my cabbage". It's a common term of endearment.)
> 
> If you leave a comment, I will love you forever.
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: More sweet lovin', Tomas told Émilie who he's dating, the Aces went on a roadie, and Kent doesn't feel safe around his team. This week: Daily jitters, charity auctions and hockey games, and not going for a run in the morning. Also: Phone sex.
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

 Kent wakes up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. It’s the third or maybe the fourth day in a row he feels keyed up and jittery. Is he coming down with something? He debates skipping his morning run, but it’s his favorite thing to start the day, so in the end he grabs his phone and earbuds and heads out.

The streets are at their quietest just before sunrise. Vegas never really stops being Vegas, especially right on the Strip, but 6:30 on an October week day is the calmest that it gets. Kent makes his way down the familiar streets in the dim pre-dawn light, past grass that always goes brown in the Nevada sun no matter how much its owners water it. As usual, the run clears his head. By the time he’s circled back to his building, he feels ready for the day.

The sun is coming up just as he tosses his keys back on the kitchen counter. Kit ambles out of the bedroom and leaps gracefully up the shelves on the wall until she’s reached the top, where she curls up in the early morning sun.

“Hey princess,” Kent says. She blinks at him and then closes her eyes to bask in the light. Kent ducks into the shower and makes himself breakfast.

By the time he’s scrolling through Instagram and chewing on his toast and eggs, the tension in his body is back. His hands are shaking like he’s downed four shots of espresso. What the hell is going on with him this week?

He switches his banana out for the strawberries he still had in the fridge. He likes strawberries, and they always make him feel better. But he doesn’t really enjoy them, because he’s not that hungry anymore.

It’s not a game day, but he has training in an hour and he can’t afford to skimp on breakfast. The season’s started in earnest and he has a hard enough time keeping his weight up without weird bugs killing his appetite.

He forces himself to eat all the strawberries and finish his glass of milk, but he still feels uncomfortable, like he’s not all the way in his body. When he’s brushing his teeth, the weirdness turns abruptly to nausea and before he knows it, he’s heaving up his breakfast over the toilet bowl.

“What the fuck,” he tells Kit, who’s come over to see what the hell is going on and is meowing at him from the bathroom door. He feels a little better, though, so maybe it is just a stomach bug. Maybe he should ask the team doctors what they think.

When he gets to the trainers’ room at the rink, and the trainer asks how he’s doing, he’s said “I’m good” before he knows it, and once he’s said it, there suddenly doesn’t seem much reason to correct himself.

  
         -------------  


**Kent [5:57 pm]:** help me pick a tie

**Kent [5:57 pm]:** [PHOTO]

**Kent [5:58 pm]:** [PHOTO]

**Tomas [6:01 pm]:** The dark blue one

**Tomas [6:01 pm]:** You look amazing

**Tomas [6:02 pm]:** What’s the occasion?

**Kent [6:03 pm]:** charity dinner & auction

**Kent [6:03 pm]:** shld be fun

**Kent [6:04 pm]:** just hangin w rich ppl & representing the team etc

**Kent [6:05 pm]:** and im hosting the auction w someone from the charity

**Tomas [6:05 pm]:** Sounds fun

**Kent [6:06 pm]:** yeah

**Kent [6:06 pm]:** game day tmrw but wanna come over the day after?

**Kent [6:06 pm]:** we shld watch hells kitchen

**Kent [6:06 pm]:** theres a new season & i dvrd the first ep

**Tomas [6:07 pm]:** That sounds great, looking forward to it

**Kent [6:07 pm]:** :)

****  
\-------------  
  


“I was at the home opener,” the woman at Kent’s right says. She’s the daughter of a casino owner and she probably paid two grand to sit at this table. “It’s always my favorite game of the year. The atmosphere is just magical.”

“Sorry we couldn’t get you a win,” Kent says, halfway between a chirp and an apology. They’re a month out from the first game of the season, so the sting of losing it has faded a little.

“It’s all right. I was at yesterday’s game, too,” she says, grinning at him.

“Well, consider my assist in the second period dedicated to you,” he says with a wink.

“I can’t have the goal?” she teases. He thinks she might be flirting with him just a bit, but she’s got to be in her early forties and probably doesn’t mean to take it anywhere, so he doesn’t mind too much.

“The goal is taken,” he says, because two days ago he’d said _Touch me, fucking stop teasing me_ and Tomas had grinned and said _Yeah? What’s it worth, huh?_ and Kent had said _I’ll get you a goal tomorrow._ He abruptly realizes that this woman might actually ask who the goal was for, and so he says, “But there’s a puck I signed in the auction tonight, and I scored a goal with that, so you can always see if you can outbid the rest.”

The guy across the table asks him something about his coaching then. The man doesn’t seem to understand the first thing about hockey, but he’s spending a bunch of money by being here to get kids into sports programs. Kent is happy to talk about his junior teams for a while. He’s got teammates who really dislike the kind of schmoozing that charity dinners call for, but Kent sort of loves it.

The waiters clear their dessert plates away, and a few minutes later Kent is standing around with a glass of champagne, chatting up rich folks to try to get them to donate to _Empower YOUth_. It’s another fifteen minutes before he’ll be co-hosting the charity auction.

“You’re the famous hockey player, aren’t you?” says an elderly lady beside him. “That’s a very nice tie, young man. It brings out your eyes.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Kent says, smiling at her. She looks vaguely familiar, but he’s not sure who she is until her husband steps up, and he realizes they’re the owners of the hotel that takes up the bottom half of his apartment building. “I’m the player, yeah. I coach hockey teams for _Empower YOUth_.”

He’s going to launch into his little fundraising speech, but she speaks first. “Well, isn’t that just wonderful. Maybe Evan should do something like that, don’t you think that’d be a good idea, Harold?” she says to her husband.

The husband answers with a distracted “yes, dear,” and disappears, possibly to go find more alcohol. Kent wonders if his wife dragged him to this event, or he just feels obligated to show up because he’s rich.

“Evan is our grandson,” the woman adds. “Plays sports in college out in Ohio. He’s a lovely boy. You remind me of him, though I don’t think he’s got the fashion sense to show up looking as dashing as you do.”

“Well, I try,” Kent says, winking at her. “What sport does Evan play?”

She smiles back. “He’s on the basketball team,” she says. “He’s very tall, as you can imagine. We used to joke about how he’d have to find a girl who loved wearing heels or it wouldn’t work out.” She chuckles, and Kent cracks a smile, until she adds, “Of course, now he’s got a boyfriend who’s an inch taller than him.”

Kent narrowly avoids choking on a sip of champagne. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand. He chuckles uncomfortably and tries to hold on to the easy socializing mood he was in ten seconds ago.

“I don’t quite know how he has time for romance, anyway; they say college athletes never have a moment’s peace,” she goes on. “I don’t suppose it’s much better for professional athletes. How do you do that?”

Kent can feel how forced his smile is; he just hopes she can’t tell. “Well, I don’t have a lot of spare time, that’s for sure,” he says. “But hey, you make time when something’s important, right? And speaking of time, I think I should go see whether I’m needed on-stage for the auction.”

She smiles kindly at him. “Of course,” she says.

“Don’t forget to bid,” he says, and makes sure he smiles back before he escapes from the room. It’s at least another five minutes before the auction starts, so he ducks into a bathroom stall where he can be away from prying eyes for a few precious seconds. He takes a deep breath. It’s fine. Nothing happened, so he’s fine.

He pulls out his phone and finds a bunch of texts from Tomas.

**Tomas [8:05 pm]:** This blog post is kicking my ass

**Tomas [8:05 pm]:** It’s my fault for deciding that I should discuss the goalie situations of all NHL teams in one post

**Tomas [8:06 pm]:** And for letting myself fall down a hockeydb rabbit hole

**Tomas [8:06 pm]:** I’m looking at the page for Arturs Irbe and I don’t know how I ended up here

**Tomas [8:07 pm]:** He’s been retired for twelve years and is completely irrelevant to my blog post

**Tomas [8:10 pm]:** I might have to just limit this post to the Pacific division and make it a series

**Tomas [8:12 pm]:** Anyway, hope the charity event is fun

Kent smiles at his screen. He takes a deep breath. See, he’s feeling better already—he’s fine. When he types out a response, his hands are barely shaking anymore.

**Kent [9:23 pm]:** its fine

**Kent [9:24 pm]:** auction starts in 6 mins

**Kent [9:24 pm]:** so lets hope these rich fuckers bid on some shit

**Kent [9:24 pm]:** hows ur post goin

**Tomas [9:25 pm]:** Still gotta do the Flames and the Canucks to finish off the Pacific

**Tomas [9:25 pm]:** The rest is going to be different posts

**Kent [9:26 pm]:** sounds good

**Kent [9:26 pm]:** i gotta go

**Tomas [9:26 pm]:** Good luck xx

Kent stares at the two little x’es for way too long. Then he takes a deep breath and goes to find the auction co-host.

  
         -------------

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 2d

There won’t be a blog post this Friday because I’ll be at a wedding.

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 2d

Because it’s in Quebec, this also means I’m not on the Aces’ upcoming roadie and yet I still have to get on a plane.

  
         -------------  


**Tamara F** @TotalTamara · 3h

A famous guy totally saved my day.

|

**Tamara F** @TotalTamara · 3h

So I’m working the late shift at the bar. Manager has left, co-worker has just arrived to help the last 2 hrs. The place is pretty quiet. All of a sudden this moderately drunk guy stumbles behind the bar and grabs a bottle of liquor and starts to walk away

|

**Tamara F** @TotalTamara · 3h

So I’m like, “Sir, give that back please.” And he turns to me and goes “shut up you c*nt” and he’s clearly way more wasted than I thought.

|

**Tamara F** @TotalTamara · 3h

My choices are: a) get murdered by this guy when I try to stop him from stealing, or b) get murdered by my manager for letting him steal. So I’m panicking and Anya is clearly equally panicked and then out of nowhere this guy pops up

|

**Tamara F** @TotalTamara · 3h

Claps the drunk guy on the shoulder and goes, “hey man, let’s get you a ride home, yeah?” I’m thinking, is he just gonna let this guy get away with it, but as soon as the drunk guy’s got his back turned, the other one turns to me

|

**Tamara F** @TotalTamara · 3h

Gives me a hundred bucks, which is four times what the bottle was worth, and winks at me, and says “keep the rest” real quietly, and then he just hauls the other guy out of the bar, and I’m looking at the 100 bucks in my hand thinking what the hell just happened.

|

**Tamara F** @TotalTamara · 3h

They’re barely out the door and Anya says “holy shit, do you know who that was??” And no, I did not know who that was. Apparently he’s a famous hockey player. Not even from here, so he must be here for an away game, says Anya.

|

**Tamara F** @TotalTamara · 3h

Anyway, I don’t really care who he is, but I ended up with a huuuge tip (sorta?) and without a theft problem. So if you ask me, that guy can come back to Houston any time.

  
         -------------  


“Hey Parse, you’re coming out with us tonight, right?” Scotty yells across the hotel hallway as he jogs in Kent’s direction.

Kent looks up from where he’s just unlocking his room door. “Nah,” he calls back. “I’m good.” He’s tired, tomorrow is a game day, and he’s promised to call Tomas.

“Dude!” Davy says, from closer by where he’s just popped his head of his hotel room. “You gotta come with us. I know all the best places in Houston. I can totally get you laid.”

Kent swallows down a sudden wave of frustration he can’t place. “Nah, I’m good,” he repeats.

Scotty slings an arm over Davy’s shoulder. “Parser, you know he lived here, right? He knows all the best places to pick up girls.”

Kent just barely manages to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Nice,” he says. “But I’m beat. Some other time, yeah?”

“Boring, Parse,” Davy says.

“Yeah, whatever,” Kent says. “Have fun, guys. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He pushes the door open and gets inside as fast as he can.

  
         -------------  


Tomas is watching a Penguins–Hurricanes game in his hotel room in Saint-Jérôme when Kent calls him. The Aces beat the Hawks yesterday in an afternoon game and aren’t playing the Aeros until tomorrow night. Kent’s “Hey babe,” is cheerful.

“Hey,” Tomas says, muting his TV. The game wasn’t all that interesting anymore anyway, what with the Penguins up by four at the start of the third. “How’s Houston?”

“Hot,” Kent says with a sigh.

“Oh, kind of like Vegas,” Tomas says.

“Vegas is the good kind of hot. I tried to go for a run this morning and almost drowned in my own sweat.”

Tomas chuckles. “Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed like us sane people.”

“Lazy people, you mean,” Kent says. Tomas can just about hear the grin in his voice. “How’s Quebec? I’m surprised you still speak English.”

“ _Ferme-la_ ,” Tomas says. “It’s nice to be back. Last night I went out for drinks with Sean and a couple other friends. He’s pretty nervous about getting married, I think.” He chuckles. “Should be fine, though, so I don’t think anyone’s going to be left at the altar tomorrow. Then today I went down to Montreal to hang out with Émilie for a couple of hours.”

“Nice. How’s she doing?” Kent asks.

“Yeah, fine, it was good to catch up. Meanwhile, I hear you won yesterday,” Tomas says. “It’s weird that there was an Aces game and I didn’t see it.”

Kent chuckles. “Did you catch the highlights, at least?”

“Of course,” Tomas says. “Looked like a good game. Shame it broke your points streak, though.”

“Ah, it’s still early in the season, I can still get a good one in later,” Kent says. “Also Swoops bet me last week that I wouldn’t even get a four-game one, and I did, so I consider it a success.”

Tomas laughs. “That’s what’s important, of course. Did you tell him about us yet?” He talks to Jeff sometimes, and it’ll be nice to know when he doesn’t have to hide his relationship with Kent anymore, at least to that one person.

There’s a moment’s silence, and then Kent says, “No, haven’t gotten ‘round to it yet. The first weeks of the season, you know? Lots of stuff going on. Hey, remind me when you’re flying back in?”

“Day after tomorrow, when you get back from the roadie,” Tomas says. “I should check my flight time—I think it’s a morning flight, so I’ll have to get up early the day after the wedding, which might be annoying,” he says, sighing at the thought.

“You might even have to get up at _7 am_ ,” Kent says in mock sympathy.

“We can’t all be morning people,” Tomas grumbles.

Kent laughs. “At least I won’t have to see your grumpy face in the morning.”

“Please, you like my grumpy face in the morning,” Tomas says.

He expects another laugh or a chirp, but Kent’s voice goes quieter as he says, “Yeah. I miss you.”

Something warm settles in Tomas’ stomach. “I miss you, too,” he says.

“Mm,” Kent hums, and there’s something distracted about it, and then he says, “You’re by yourself, right?”

“Yeah?” Tomas says, a little suspiciously.

“Cool,” Kent says, and then his voice drops a couple of notes and he says, “You want me to tell you what I miss about you?”

_Oh_. Okay. Tomas switches off his TV entirely, because he’s pretty sure he wants to focus on this conversation. “Yes,” he says.

“I miss your hands,” Kent says. His voice is low and husky, the way Tomas has heard it once or twice right before he gets his hands on Kent and makes him forget what words are. “If I were with you right now, I’d want your hands all over me. Get your hands in my hair, you know what I—” He falters for a split second, then goes on, his voice low and earnest and _hot_ , “You know how much that turns me on.”

“ _Crisse_ ,” Tomas says, breathless. He can just imagine it: the way Kent’s eyes go glassy when Tomas slides a hand into his hair, pulls just hard enough.

“Yeah?” Kent says, and Tomas can hear the smirk in his voice. “You know what I’d do?”

“What?” he asks reflexively, pressing his phone closer to his ear.

Kent hums, draws the moment out, and Tomas can feel arousal stirring in his belly. Fuck, has Kent done this before? Does he know how devastating his voice is? “Wanna get my hands on your skin,” he says. “I bet you’re wearing one of your button-downs.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says, because Kent knows him well, and he _is_.

“Cool,” Kent says, and it should be ridiculous, but his voice is still quiet and intense, and it sends shivers down Tomas’ spine. “Then I can undo the buttons really slowly. Do ‘em one by one, draw it out. Get you impatient.”

“ _Crisse_ ,” Tomas says again. He fumbles to undo the buttons of his shirt, because he desperately wants to imagine Kent’s hands on him.

“Then I’d take your shirt off,” Kent says. “And… mm, slide my hands all the way down your chest. I love how your skin feels, you’re so fucking hot.”

Tomas can feel his breathing speed up. He doesn’t even know how this happened to him, but he’s so on board, it’s not even funny. He brushes a hand over his chest, tries to imagine it’s Kent’s, and somehow, the image comes easily, of Kent in front of him, looking at him with eager, lust-darkened eyes. “Then what?” he asks breathlessly.

Kent chuckles quietly on the other side. “You know that sensitive spot just below your jaw? That’s where I’d kiss you,” he says. Tomas presses his fingers to the spot, breathes out slowly. “Give you a proper hickey,” Kent adds. “And then I’d kiss you all the way down your chest,” he goes on. “Fuck, you’d probably put your hands back in my hair. So I’d, mm, I’d forget what I was doing for a second.”

The thought of Kent knowing just how affected he’d be, just from Tomas’ hands in his hair, has Tomas breathless. He’s fully hard in his jeans now, and he’s aching to touch himself. Not yet, though, he tells himself.

“You’re on the bed?” Kent asks, and even though it’s not part of the fantasy, his voice is quiet and warm and earnest, and it doesn’t pull Tomas out of the picture he’s spinning.

“Yeah,” Tomas says.

“Good,” Kent says. “Cause I’d sit back a little and look at you for a little while, just see how gorgeous you are and how turned on you look for me. And then I’d make you sit on the edge, and I’d get off the bed and on my knees.”

“ _Fuck,_ fuck,” Tomas says. “Shit, yeah, _please_.” And, okay, he’s not sure he can remember the last time he was this fucking turned on, and nobody’s even touched him yet, not even himself.

“Yeah?” Kent says. “You want me to blow you? Because you know I fucking love it.”

“Yeah?” Tomas gasps, even though he does know.

Kent’s voice has gone husky again. “Fuck, yes. I love the taste of you,” he says. “I’d get between your legs, take your jeans off. I know you’d be hard, and I’d be, fuck, I’d be fucking close just from knowing I turn you on.”

Tomas tries to keep his breathing steady, even as he fumbles one-handedly with the zipper on his jeans. Fuck, he’s so turned on he can’t even think straight. Kent sounds about a hundred percent more composed than Tomas feels, even though Kent’s clearly affected by the fantasies he’s spinning, too.

“Then I’d suck you off,” Kent says on the other side of the line, and Tomas finally gets a hand on himself. His breath stutters at how good it feels. “Fuck, so good,” Kent adds. “I love it. Having you in my mouth, my tongue on you, getting those gasps out of you – yeah, like that,” he says. “You touching yourself?”

“Yeah,” Tomas breathes out.

“Good,” Kent says. “Keep doing that. ‘Cause you know I’d keep my mouth on you. Shame I gotta pause to breathe, cause fuck, you taste _so good_.”

“Ah,” Tomas huffs. He’s having trouble catching his breath as he mimics with his hand what Kent is telling him he’s doing.

“I love it,” Kent says. “Love how you respond. Gotta hold your hips down, yeah? Otherwise you’d fucking lose it. Though maybe I’d let you fuck up into my mouth a bit. I can handle it.”

Tomas can feel his toes curling. He’s tantalizingly close to the edge. “ _Crisse_ , Kent, I can’t—I’m close.”

“Yeah?” Kent says. “You know I’m not gonna pull off. I want it, wanna taste you,” he says. “I want you to come for me, let go, come on.”

That’s pretty much all it takes to tip Tomas over the edge. “ _Ahh_ ,” he moans as he comes, his orgasm washing over him with startling intensity. “ _Fuck,_ Kent,” he gasps out.

Kent’s breathing fast on the other side of the line, clearly not far behind. He’s quiet until he comes with a bitten-off whine.

Then they’re both trying to catch their breaths. “ _Crisse de Câlisse,”_ Tomas says, once he can form words again and has regained the presence of mind necessary to grab some tissues and clean himself up. “What was _that_?”

He realizes that might be misconstrued right as Kent says, voice rapidly shifting back into a higher register, “Sorry, was that not—”

“That was the fucking _best_ ,” Tomas says, before Kent can get the wrong idea. “When—how did you—where’d you learn _that_?”

Kent laughs, still a little breathless himself. “I dunno,” he says, all his eloquence apparently vanishing now that they’ve both come. “You liked it?”

“Liked it?” Tomas huffs out a laugh. “I don’t remember the last time I came that hard.”

“Oh,” Kent says, a little startled, but with smugness seeping into his voice as he continues, “Guess I should have the dirty talk ready when we’re both back in Vegas, huh?”

“Fuck yes,” Tomas says.

They’re silent for a few seconds, and then Kent says, “I still miss you.”

Tomas knows what he means. He’s sated, but... “If you were here, I’d be holding you.”

“Yeah,” Kent says quietly.

“Day after tomorrow,” Tomas promises. “You have the Stars game, right? And you’re flying back straight after? You can come over to my place after you land.”

“Yeah, cool,” Kent says, still sounding soft and quiet and post-coital.

Tomas glances at his clock; it’s past 10 in Houston and he knows Kent likes to go to bed early on pre-game nights. “Go to sleep,” he says fondly. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“See you tomorrow,” Kent says.

Once they’ve hung up, Tomas finds himself smiling at his phone. He keeps smiling as he gets ready for bed, and he doesn’t really stop until he falls asleep.

  
         -------------  


It’s almost 1 am when Tomas opens the door to let Kent in. Kent looks exhausted. As soon as he’s set his duffel bag down, he walks into Tomas’ arms and pulls him close.

“That was a shitty game,” Tomas says, muffled against Kent’s shoulder.

“Fucked up,” Kent agrees.

“Where’s Newton?” As he asks the question, Tomas pulls Kent over to the living room and onto the couch. Kent curls into his side immediately.

“Still at the hospital in Dallas,” he says. “He has a hairline fracture in his foot, and they wanted to put a cast on it. Some of the muscles were messed up too. He’s out for three weeks at least, probably more like five though.”

“ _Merde_ ,” Tomas says. “Who are they gonna put on your line?”

“Dunno,” Kent says. “Probably Carly, or maybe Kelly. After the rest of the game today, I guess they won’t be trying to have Birds move up to play with me and Scotty.”

“Yeah, that didn’t look great,” Tomas says. Honestly, the entire game had been a disaster from the moment Beck Newton was slammed skate-first into the boards, threw up from the pain, and had to be stretchered off the ice. Kent’s new line with Birds had definitely not been a highlight, though.

“God damnit, I hate losing,” Kent says.

Tomas sighs in sympathy. The Aces season isn’t off to the best start so far.

They’re quiet for a few minutes, until Tomas says, “Come to bed? You must be exhausted.”

Kent heaves a sigh next to him. “Yeah,” he says. “Sorry, I’m not the best company. Fuck, I _hate_ losing.”

Tomas suppresses a chuckle. He feels for Kent, he really does, but it’s also a little funny. “It’s okay. Do you have skate tomorrow morning?”

He feels Kent shake his head against his shoulder. “It’s an optional. I’m skipping. It’s not like any of them want to see my face after the way I played tonight.”

“Hey, don’t be too hard on yourself,” Tomas says.

Kent snorts. “You saw it, right? I was a fucking disaster. Not that Scotty or Birds were much better. I don’t know why the hell they put him on our line; there’s zero chemistry. He’s never where he needs to be to make my plays work. Which is still not an excuse for that fucked up turnover I made in the third. Like the Stars needed a fucking _sixth_ goal.”

“Okay, bed. You can beat yourself up more tomorrow,” Tomas says, standing up and pulling Kent with him. Kent is still grumbling about the game as he gets his bag and finds a shirt to sleep in.

They’re in bed a few minutes later. Tomas is on his back with Kent curled against his side, one of Kent’s arms across his chest.

“What are the stars for?” Kent asks, his voice a little calmer now.

Tomas glances up, to where his kiddie stars are glowing faintly in the darkness. “It’s a long story. You’re going to fall asleep halfway through,” he says.

“No, I’m not,” Kent says, shifting so his head is on Tomas’ shoulder.

“Okay. When I was a kid, I was really scared of the dark,” Tomas says. “My parents always left on a nightlight. If they didn’t, I’d stay up all night worrying about monsters.”

“Mm,” Kent hums quietly.

Tomas brings his hand up to play with Kent’s hair. “When I was around eleven, I went to stay with my aunt and uncle in Montreal. I slept in my cousin’s old bedroom. He was away at boarding school. I didn’t want to ask for a light, ‘cause I thought it would be childish. So here I am, in this pitch dark room, and I look up, and there’s two eyes staring down at me. I almost had a heart attack. I didn’t want to move. I thought for sure if I did, the monster would catch me. So I lie there for what feels like forever, and those eyes are just up there staring down. Finally, I get the courage to move, so I sneak out of the bed. I try really hard not to move too fast, ‘cause I’ve heard you’re supposed to move slowly if you see wild animals. Once I’m out the room, I sprint down the stairs. My uncle and aunt were in the living room, so I blabbered something to them about monsters and eyes. They come upstairs with me. I point at the eyes, which are still there above the bed. My aunt flicks on the light, and they’re glow in the dark stars.”

Kent huffs out a laugh beside him.

“Yeah,” Tomas says, grinning a little. “So I was worried for nothing, and my aunt and uncle had a good laugh. They also got me a little light, though. So I didn’t have to worry about monsters while I stayed there. Then much later, when I was living in Montreal after college, I was with Émilie. I told her the story, and she thought it was hilarious. For my next birthday, she got me glow in the dark stars. I put them up, and when I moved to St Paul, she sent me new ones as a housewarming gift. Then she did it again when I moved here. They’re actually kind of annoying,” he says, chuckling to himself. “They’re really bright if the light’s been on for a while before I go to sleep. But I like having them up.”

Kent doesn’t respond.

Tomas gently nudges his arm. “Did you fall asleep?” There’s no response except for Kent’s steady breathing, and Tomas finds himself grinning into the dark. “ _J’t’avais dit que t’allais t’endormir_ ,” he whispers quietly. _“Fait de beaux rêves._ ” Kent, of course, doesn’t respond, and it’s not long before Tomas falls asleep himself.

  
         -------------  


Kent wakes up just after six, feeling a hell of a lot less frustrated than yesterday. He’s a sore loser, especially if he played a bad game himself, and getting shut out is the worst—but everything’s always better after a good night’s sleep.

Tomas is fast asleep beside him, his breathing a not-quite-snore. Kent smiles and shifts onto his back. Tomas’ curtains aren’t all the way closed, and he can just make out the beginnings of dawn in the little patch of sky he can see. It’s early. He can lie here for a couple more minutes.

The glow in the dark stars above his head are just barely visible against Tomas’ ceiling. Tomas told him about those yesterday, but he doesn’t remember the end of the story. He’s pretty sure that despite his promises, he did fall asleep halfway through. Tomas is probably going to chirp the hell out of him for that.

He dozes for a few more minutes. When he wakes again, he sits up and swings his legs off the bed. It’s still cool outside, which is the best time for a run. He’s halfway to standing when he remembers he’s not in his own apartment, where everyone’s used to running into him at 7 in the morning.

It’s dark out, so he isn’t going to get recognized, is he? He glances at the window, where the sky has noticeably brightened since he first woke up ten minutes ago.

It’s probably fine. If he ran into anyone, it’s not like they would be able to tell what apartment he’s been staying in. Unless he ran into someone right outside the front door, like a neighbor going to work early, or someone coming home from a night shift, and he can’t really rule out being recognized, so…

He shakes his head. The real issue is, he doesn’t have a key. And he wouldn’t want to wake Tomas when he got back. Tomas is probably going to sleep for another two hours at least.

He can just tack ten minutes onto his run tomorrow morning, anyway.

When he gets back into bed, his legs feel tingly and he’s breathing a little fast, but that’s probably because his body was anticipating a run, right?

He grabs his phone from the bedside table and scrolls through Instagram. Not much is happening this early. He brings up the team group text.

**Kent [7:07 am]:**  sup beck, u still alive?

It’s seconds before he gets a response, though it’s not from Beck Newton.

**Dave [7:07 am]:** Duuude why are you texting at fucking six in the morning

**Dave [7:07 am]:** Some of us are trying to sleep

**Kent [7:08 am]:** phones have this thing called silent mode u shld try it

**Dave [7:08 am]:** Fuck youuu I’m going back to sleep

**Scotty [7:09 am]:** dude you’re weak, I’ve already been on a run, bet parser has too

**Kent [7:09 am]:** yup

**Beck [7:10 am]:** Broken metatarsal

**Beck [7:10 am]:** They just discharged me

**Beck [7:11 am]:** [photo]

**Kent [7:11 am]:** nice cast do we get to draw on it

**Beck [7:12 am]:** Uh no

**Beck [7:12 am]:** I’m not walking around with dicks on my cast

**Kent [7:12 am]:** fair

**Kent [7:12 am]:** tho walkings gonna be a challenge anyway

**Scotty [7:13 am]:** wow rude lol

**Kent [7:13 am]:** hows yr ankle

**Beck [7:14 am]:** Mild sprain, no torn ligaments, so it’s just the foot

**Kent [7:14 am]:** cool

**Tanner [7:15 am]:** I’m witnessing a miracle.

**Beck [7:15 am]:** what?

**Tanner [7:15 am]:** Parser’s been in the group chat for ten minutes and he hasn’t sent a pic of his cat yet

**Beck [7:15 am]:** lol

**Scotty [7:15 am]:** oh my god tanner DON’T

Kent ignores the harsh beating of his heart as he scrolls through his phone for the pictures of Kit he took just before their roadie, pictures he hadn’t previously put in the team text group. He hasn’t seen her yet since he got back, because he’s not at his own place, but he can’t risk saying that.

**Kent [7:16 am]:** [photo]

**Kent [7:16 am]:** so sry tanner i didnt realize u missed her so much

**Kent [7:17 am]:** [photo]

**Kent [7:17 am]:** [photo]

**Kent [7:17 am]:** [photo]

**Scotty [7:17 am]:** tanner this is your fault

**Kent [7:18 am]:** [photo]

**Tanner [7:18 am]:** You know what, I regret bringing this up.

**Kent [7:18 am]:** [photo]

**Kent [7:18 am]:** no u dont

**Kent [7:18 am]:** kit is the best and all of you fuckers know it

**Beck [7:19 am]:** I’m off to the airport, laters

**Kent [7:19 am]:** good luck

**Kent [7:19 am]:** kit says good luck too

**Kent [7:20 am]:** [photo]

**Scotty [7:20 am]:** stop

**Scotty [7:20 am]:** see you soon Becky

**Beck [7:20 am]:** For fuck’s sake stop calling me that

**Beck [7:20 am]:** I broke my foot

**Beck [7:21 am]:** Have some mercy

**Kent [7:21 am]:** safe flight becky

**Scotty [7:21 am]:** sure Becky

**Tanner [7:22 am]:** Come on Becky you know we love you

**Beck [7:22 am]:** I hate all of you.

The group text falls silent, and Kent switches to the ESPN app to read some hockey news, carefully avoiding recaps of last night’s disaster. By the time he’s caught up on the rest of the league, Instagram has sprung to life.

  
         -------------  


Tomas wakes up to find Kent sitting up against the headboard, scrolling through something on his phone. He yawns and rolls over onto his back, and Kent glances over at him fondly.

“Finally back with the living?” Kent says. He sounds much better than he did last night.

“We can’t all be gross morning people,” Tomas grumbles. He considers turning over and going back to sleep. It’s Saturday and neither of them have anywhere to be. But a glance at the clock tells him it’s almost 9:30, so he probably won’t be able to get much more sleep, and Kent is probably starving. “Did you go on your run?” he asks.

“Nah, I’m good,” Kent says, swiping on his screen.

Tomas yawns again and pushes up onto his elbows. “You sure? I guess it’s too warm out now, anyway. I have spare keys you can take next time; they’re in the cutlery drawer somewhere. So you don’t need to worry about waking me when you get back.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kent says. He twists his phone around in his hands.

“Breakfast?” Tomas says, pushing the sheets back as he sits up.

“Sure,” Kent says. His eyes roam up and down Tomas’ body. “You wanna brush your teeth first?” he suggests, and Tomas grins at him.

He’s still in his t-shirt and boxers when he makes it to the kitchen a few minutes later. Kent is rummaging through the fridge, but closes it when Tomas steps up against his back and wraps his arms around him. He braces one arm on the counter when Tomas leans in and kisses his neck. Tomas slides his hand down to the edge of Kent’s shirt. “Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Kent says, his voice breathy, and Tomas slides his hand up and over the smooth skin of Kent’s enviably flat stomach. Kent lets out a huff of breath, and before long he twists around and kisses him heatedly. Tomas loves how responsive Kent is, even now that they’re together pretty regularly and it can’t just be his dry spell.

His hand has shifted to Kent’s back when he turned, but he slides it to the front and up until he’s grazing Kent’s nipple. Kent gasps into his mouth.

“Okay?” Tomas says.

Kent nods, pulls out of the kiss. “You don’t have to ask every two seconds,” he says.

“Just checking,” Tomas says.

“I know,” Kent says, his eyebrows knitting together. “But it’s fine, you don’t need to.”

“I don’t want to push you,” Tomas says.

Kent takes a tiny step back so they’re no longer plastered together. He shivers when the movement makes Tomas’ hand slide down a little, and takes a deep breath before saying, “Seriously?”

“Yeah?” Tomas says. He can’t quite read Kent’s tone.

“Come on,” Kent says. “I’m—I’m on board, okay?” He grins a little self-deprecatingly. “I think we’ve established I’m almost always on board.”

Tomas looks at him fondly. “I know. I just… I know this is new for you.”

“Not that new,” Kent says. He shakes his head when Tomas opens his mouth. “I’m not that virginal, you know.” His face is still flushed, and probably his chest is, too, Tomas thinks a little distractedly. “I get that it’s only been a few weeks, and I know I was—I know I needed to adjust a little. But I know what I want. I know what I like.” He smirks. “And I like sex, so don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Tomas says cautiously. “But if you don’t want—”

“I know how to say no,” Kent interrupts. “You don’t need to treat me with kid gloves. It’s fine if you want to check in, it’s whatever, I do it too, that’s like, consent and all that,” he says, waving a hand around. “But you don’t need to go overboard with it. Okay?”

“All right.”

“Good,” Kent says. He leans in and kisses him hard.

  
         -------------  


**Kent [3:19 pm]:** im getting the new iphone

**Tomas [3:21 pm]:** Nice

**Kent [3:22 pm]:** u want one?

**Tomas [3:22 pm]:** I know where this is going and you’re not buying me an iPhone

**Kent [3:23 pm]:** u dont want one?

**Tomas [3:24 pm]:** I can buy myself an iPhone if I want to

**Kent [3:25 pm]:** right or i cld buy it for u right now while im getting mine

**Tomas [3:26 pm]:** Kent you can’t just get me an iPhone

**Kent [3:27 pm]:** u said ur phone is getting really slow

**Tomas [3:28 pm]:** I said it was getting a LITTLE slow, and that was not a hint for you to buy me a new one

**Kent [3:29 pm]:** no i know

**Kent [3:30 pm]:** doesnt mean i cant buy u one anyway

**Tomas [3:31 pm]:** You can get me an iPhone for Christmas and we need to talk about spending limits for random gifts

**Kent [3:32 pm]:** but im already gettin u sth else for xmas

**Tomas [3:33 pm]:** Then I will save up for an iPhone like a normal person and buy it myself

**Tomas [3:34 pm]:** Also do we need to talk about spending limits on Christmas presents?

**Kent [3:35 pm]:** …no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ferme-la" = Shut up  
> “J’t’avais dit que t’allais t’endormir. Fait de beaux rêves.” = I told you you'd fall asleep. Sweet dreams.
> 
>  
> 
> Leave me a comment to make me gently buzz out of my skin due to my love for you. 
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: The big and small delights of starting a relationship, including advice on which tie to wear, lots of sex, being supported by your boyfriend after a loss, and, apparently, skipping your morning run because your body is fucking you over for no reason. This week: Sometimes you're in a shitty mood and you just want to have dinner with your boyfriend.
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

Fuck everything.

Tomas lets out a long groan as he stares at his computer screen, where the cursor is spinning in colorful circles yet again. Finally, the display switches to the NHL.com stats page he’s been trying to pull up for nearly a minute now. The NHL site is its own kind of hell, and it takes long minutes before he’s found the stat he needs and can switch back to writing his article.  

He swears emphatically when the cursor starts spinning again and his computer tells him Word ‘isn’t responding’. “ _Si t’as supprimé mon article, tu vas fucking finir aux calice de vindanges_ ,” he tells it through his teeth. He’ll find a way to stuff his fucking iMac in the trash can.

His article text does show up a minute later. He glances at the clock in the corner and swears again, then starts typing as fast as he can. He’s supposed to hand in this article in less than thirty minutes, and thanks to his temperamental computer, it’s not even halfway done.  

The next time he needs a statistic, he should just look it up on his phone. Actually, he should’ve thought of that possibility three hours ago, because his computer has been acting up all day, all through Tomas typing up his notes from this morning’s post-practice interviews and through his first article of the day.  

A pop-up shows up in the lower corner of his screen, informing him that Catrina has emailed him. The subject line is ‘Reminder for Tomorrow’s Meeting’. He glares at it. His meetings with Catrina and the rest of the PR staff are usually pretty dull. He gets through them on a good dose of caffeine and an attitude of trying to see the humor in ridiculous office politics, but right now he can’t even stand the thought. Still, it’s not until tomorrow, so he clicks the popup away, then groans in frustration when it takes his computer a solid twenty seconds to get back to the point where it will let him type. Seriously, there’s something wrong with it.  

His phone buzzes, and he really doesn’t have time to check it, but he does anyway. Maybe it’s Kent or Émilie or someone else who can cheer him up.  

But no, it’s his cousin Iliana, so he puts his phone down without even reading the message. He loves her to death, but she’s been ranting at him all week about her boyfriend, who is apparently a dick, but whenever Tomas suggests that she dump him, she gets mad.  

He grits his teeth and punches out the rest of the article. His computer takes a break from the shit it’s been giving him all day, so long as he just sticks to his article and doesn’t try to open any other programs. Finally, he sends the file off. Not his best work, but it’ll have to do—there’s two minutes till the deadline. Besides, he’s not sure he’s got any more writing in him, after yesterday’s long blog post and two articles today.  

He switches to his Twitter timeline—which takes two minutes to load,  _fuck_  his iMac right now, and fuck Apple for taking his money and giving him a computer that just  _stops working_ for no reason. His timeline reminds him that yesterday’s blog post was… controversial, to say the least.  _Four things the NHL could do during this year’s Hockey Is For Everyone month to actually make hockey inclusive_. He doesn’t want to take any of it back, but that’s hard to remember when he sees how his mentions have blown up. Looking at them is definitely a mistake, but he does it anyway. Fifteen tweets of slurs and death threats later, he resists the urge to bang his head against his desk and closes out his browser instead. 

That takes two minutes, reminding him he really does need to figure out what the hell is wrong with his computer. It was fine until last night, when it first started showing symptoms, and today it’s just been a nightmare. He really wishes he’d taken his MacBook home from the office last night. It would probably have been worth picking it up, once he noticed how slow his iMac was, but by that point he was frustrated and rushed and just tried to push through.   

Predictably, googling for possibilities as to why his computer is so slow takes forever. He goes to get a drink while his computer contemplates loading some tech sites, and it’s still not done by the time he gets back. His phone buzzes again just as he’s finally running a diagnostic program. He’s tempted to ignore it, because it’s probably either Iliana again, or Catrina to tell him he needs to make some edits to what he’s just sent in, and if it’s the latter he will actually scream. He checks anyway. 

**Kent [6:05 pm]:** sry had an acestv shoot that ran long, still @ rink now so prbs gonna b late 

Shit, Kent is coming over at 6:30. Or, well, not at 6:30, apparently. But soon, and Tomas had said he was going to cook, but he’s aggressively not in the mood.  

What he wants is to eat at Divo, his favorite restaurant. Actually, that might not be a bad idea—he’s been meaning to take Kent there, and it might be just the thing to make him feel better. Good food, good company, and no need to think about his fucked-up iMac or the racists on Twitter. 

**Tomas [6:08 pm]:** Hey, sorry, I’m having a day 

**Tomas [6:08 pm]:** I’m not in the mood to cook, mind if we change plans? 

The diagnostics program dings at him and confirms that he has a hardware problem. Which is probably going to cost a couple hundred bucks to fix. He really wants to punch the screen, but that would be even more expensive. He grabs his phone again instead.

**Kent [6:08 pm]:** oh that sucks 

**Kent [6:09 pm]:** wanna come to my place instead? 

**Tomas [6:11 pm]:** Can we go out to eat? I’ve been meaning to take you to Divo 

**Tomas [6:11 pm]:** It’s Ivoirien 

**Tomas [6:12 pm]:** Properly Ivoirien, not just people claiming to be “African cuisine” or whatever the fuck that is 

He googles options to replace RAM as he waits for Kent’s response. Even though Google takes forever, his phone doesn’t buzz until he’s comparing prices from a couple of sites.  

**Kent [6:17 pm]:** i thought u didnt like ivoirien  

And he has maybe said that, though he doesn’t remember when. But it’d be nice to get a slightly more enthusiastic reaction. Kent’s probably just chirping him, though, and it’s not on Kent to know Tomas isn’t really in the mood. 

**Tomas [6:19 pm]:** Well, I like Divo 

There’s no response for a couple of minutes, but Tomas keeps checking back anyway. Kent is usually a quick texter. He’s probably just getting held up, or maybe he’s driving and can’t text, so Tomas should just be patient. His thumb keeps straying to the icon for his Twitter app, which he should not open. Eventually, he just makes himself put his phone down, which is of course when it buzzes again.  

**Kent [6:24 pm]:** yea ok text me the address 

**Kent [6:24 pm]:** 7:30 ok? 

**Tomas [6:25 pm]:** Perfect 

He looks the restaurant up on Google Maps—on his phone this time—and sends the location through to Kent, and then he glances at his computer screen. He should probably order a new RAM module now, just to make sure it gets here as fast as possible, but he doesn’t want to deal with his computer for another minute. He pushes away from his desk and heads to the living room. He’ll order the parts when he gets back from his date. 

At least going out with Kent will hopefully cheer him up a bit. And tomorrow should be a little less stressful than today. Sure, it’s a game day, but he doesn’t have to be at the rink until the end of morning skate. So at least he can get up later and catch up on a couple hours of sleep.

He thinks about his Twitter timeline again. He stayed up late to finish a blog post on time, and this is the thanks he gets. 

There’s a couple of east coast games on, so he watches a half hour of hockey. At least hockey doesn’t disappoint: the Habs are up 3-0 when he tunes in and score again before he leaves. 

When he gets to Divo, Kent is leaning against the wall just outside. For once, his ubiquitous snapback is facing forward rather than backward. He’s in jeans and a t-shirt, blond curls escaping the hold of the snapback, his eyes focused on his phone screen, expression of concentration on his face. Probably playing Candy Crush.  

Tomas feels his lips quirk up in a little smile. See, it was a good idea to come out with Kent, even though he’s tired and still annoyed about how his day has gone. “Hey,” he says when he reaches Kent.  

Kent looks up from his phone and smiles at him. “Hey,” he says. There’s a beat where Tomas wants to touch him but can’t. Kent doesn’t move or say anything either—maybe having the same small regret.  

“Sorry I’m late,” Tomas says. “Traffic was a nightmare. Should’ve expected that, honestly, the way my day’s been going.” 

“Yeah?” Kent says.  

“Yup.” Tomas gestures at the restaurant entrance and follows Kent inside, glad to get out of the glaring sun. The weather probably isn’t helping his mood. Maybe it should—sunshine is supposed to be cheerful, after all. But Émilie had texted him a photo this morning of four inches of snow in Montreal, and he misses it.  

The delicious smells hit Tomas as soon as he enters. It’s true that he’s a picky eater, and there’s definitely stuff on the menu here that he won’t touch, but there’s still nothing that compares to the vivid memory of his mother’s cooking from when he was little. 

“ _Tomas! C’est bon de te voir!”_ The host by the door grins at him, and Tomas grins back. 

“ _Hey, Emmanuel!”_ Tomas says. He’s been here often enough that he knows everyone’s names. It’s a small, family-run place, and it’s been easy to establish himself as a regular when he has the same background.  _“Comment on se débrouille dans les qualifications de la Coupe d’Afrique?"_

_"Tu n’as pas regardé le dernier match?”_ Emmanuel asks, grinning.

“ _J’sais pas,”_ Tomas says. “ _C’etait quand?”_

_“Tu ne sais pas?”_ Emmanuel shakes his head in mock-outrage. “ _T’es un horrible traitre. Qui est ton ami?"_

Tomas gestures at Kent, who’s watching the exchange with raised eyebrows. “ _C’est Kent. Kent, c’est Emmanuel. Emmanuel, as-tu une table pour deux pour nous?"_

_“Pour toi, toujours.”_ Emmanuel leads them further into the restaurant. It’s nice to be out of the bright sunshine, in the cozier atmosphere of his favorite restaurant. It’s pretty full inside, but Emmanuel leads them to the back where it’s a little quieter and gestures at a table in the corner.

“ _Merci_ ,” Kent says. He’s being pretty quiet. Tomas finds himself frowning. He was hoping Kent would get along with the people here, since it’s one of Tomas’ favorite places in Vegas. But he probably shouldn’t be too quick to draw conclusions; they’ve only been here for a minute.

Emmanuel’s sister Simone comes over to hand out menus and take their drink orders, and then it’s just them, among the buzz of other people’s conversations.

“So, uh, your day?” Kent says as he glances over the menu.

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “ _Crisse, j’suis fatigué._ _Ça te dérange pas si je m’y tient au Français, non?"_

Kent glances up from the menu, then back down. “No, I don’t mind, French is fine,” he says, but he says it in English, and it makes Tomas frown. Kent usually switches with him, seemingly without effort, and Tomas isn’t sure why he doesn’t, right when Tomas just wants the comfort of his home language.

“ _Right_ ,” he says. “ _So after last night’s blog post—Did you read my last post?”_

“Sorry,” Kent says, grimacing apologetically. “Long day, haven’t had time yet. I was going to check in tonight.”

“Oh.” Tomas blows out a breath. Kent often doesn’t read his blog posts until a couple of days later—honestly, Tomas is still amazed Kent reads his blog at all. So it should be fine—he knows normally he’d be fine with this. But he doesn’t want to explain the entire story, and now he’ll have to. “ _Right, so I was writing about Hockey Is For Everyone month_ ,” he says.

Kent glances up from his menu again and smiles at him approvingly. Tomas would really like it if he could leave the menu for a minute and just focus on Tomas’ story. “Uh-huh,” Kent says, then glances back down.

Tomas says, “ _Well, obviously the lovely folks of Twitter were—“_

_“Have you decided what you want to order?”_ Simone asks from beside him. Tomas digs his nails into his palm. Not Simone’s fault for interrupting him—or maybe it is, but she’s young and always excited and he _likes_ her, so he reminds himself that patience is in fact a virtue he possesses.

“ _You know what I’m having,”_ he says, because he’s nothing if not predictable. She laughs and nods at him, then turns to Kent.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” Kent says, smiling at Tomas again. That’s—nice, maybe, that Kent wants to try Tomas’ favorite, but it raises the question why he had to be so damn preoccupied with the menu while Tomas was talking. And these people speak French, _Tomas_ is speaking French. It might not be Quebecois, but why the hell is Kent suddenly pretending he only knows ‘merci’?

Simone disappears. Kent glances around the restaurant, like he’s looking for something or someone, a little frown on his face.

“You okay?” Tomas asks.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, fine,” Kent says. “Just—long day, or something. Practice.” Which is a little bit incoherent, but he says he’s fine, and Tomas is tired.

“Cool,” he says. “ _Anyway, so obviously since I posted about HIFE month, my Twitter got buried in a barrage of racism and homophobia. I shouldn’t have looked at it in the first place, because I knew that was going happen, but I did it, so…”_

He keeps talking while they wait: his fucked-up timeline, then the ridiculous number of deadlines he’s had the past couple days. Kent nods and hums and says “that sucks” about fifteen times without noticeable differences in inflection.

Tomas should just ask him to stick to French, because Kent can’t possibly know it annoys Tomas today when he doesn’t. But he’s no longer sure he can ask nicely, because he finds himself abruptly annoyed not just at the entire world but also at Kent, who could really stand to be more supportive right now.

God, he doesn’t want to be a dick. He should have just stayed home and canceled on Kent and let himself get over his mood in peace. But he’d thought it would help, his favorite food at his favorite place with his favorite person, where he could vent about the racists on Twitter until he felt better.

He’s describing Iliana’s boyfriend drama and her utter inability to listen to advice when Simone appears with their food.

“ _Bon appétit,”_ she says, placing the dishes in front of them.

“ _Ça a l’air delicieux,”_ Kent says, and really, _now_ he’s found his French?

Tomas focuses on the lovely smell of _poulet bicyclette_ with attiéké, which indeed looks (and tastes, he knows from experience) delicious. The first bite of tender meat is like heaven, which makes him realize he’d been pretty damn hungry, too.

It brightens his mood enough to realize he hasn’t even asked about Kent’s day. “How was practice?” he says.

“Yeah, fine,” Kent says. “Pretty standard. I did some faceoff stuff with Kelly. Think he’s finally getting better at them. Then coaching this afternoon, you know. Not much to report.”

“How’s Mara doing?” It’s never hard to get Kent to talk about his kids, and it might be nice to just listen and eat for a little bit.

“Yeah, fine,” Kent says, and then nothing else. It’s not even really an awkward silence, because they’re eating, and the food is good, and the restaurant is dimly lit and cozy. It still grates at Tomas for no real reason.

“ _Tu aimes ça?”_ he asks after a while, gesturing at Kent’s plate.

“Yeah, it’s good,” Kent says.

“You sure?” Tomas asks, because Kent’s plate is fuller than Tomas’ is, even though Kent is almost always the fastest eater on account of how many calories he has to consume every day.

Kent sends him a wide grin. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he says. “I’m not sure what I’m eating, but it’s good.”

Tomas huffs a half-laugh. “It’s Guinea fowl. We call it _poulet bicyclette._ And the attiéké is made from cassava.”

“Cool,” Kent says. “So uh, did you do any more writing today?”

Tomas is pretty sure he already mentioned his two deadlines. He narrows his eyes at Kent, but Kent is looking back down at his plate and doesn’t notice. “Yeah,” he says. He switches back to French, even though Kent quite obviously doesn’t want him to if his constant use of English is any indication, because… well, fuck that, Kent. “ _I had two deadlines. I’m really getting sick of this thing Catrina does where she remembers last-minute that I need to be writing articles on background stuff that I could easily write a couple days in advance. Anyway, it would’ve been fine if my fucking computer didn’t decide to break.”_

“Oh,” Kent says. “What’s wrong with it?”

Tomas takes another bite of _poulet_ before he answers. “ _The RAM broke, apparently.”_

That just brings a blank look to Kent’s face. “I have no idea what that means,” he says.

“ _Well, it was slow as fuck,”_ Tomas says _. “Started last night, and today it took like two minutes to load stats on NHL.com—though that’s maybe just because NHL.com sucks. But my screen kept freezing, and it took forever before I could type anything, and it was the most fucking annoying thing ever. I figured out it’s the RAM, so at least I can fix it, but it’s going to cost like three hundred dollars and it’ll take at least a couple of days to get the parts here. And I know I have a MacBook too, so I should probably just switch to using that for a couple of days even at home and I’ll be fine, but it’s just really annoying to have to work on my laptop for entire days, instead of in my office where I have two screens and a proper setup.”_

“Right,” Kent says. There’s a couple of seconds of silence, and then Kent seems to realize he should maybe offer more than one single word of support, and he follows up with, “I can replace it if you want.”

Tomas looks up from his plate. Kent is looking out at the restaurant, not at Tomas. “What?” Tomas says.

“The—RAM. Or whatever it is. Or just the computer,” Kent says, still looking at some other table behind Tomas.

“No.” He can hear his voice come out sharp, but seriously, fuck this.

Kent finally focuses on him, looking startled now. “What?”

Tomas glares at him in frustration. “No. I can, in fact, afford my own shit, Kent.”

“What? No, I know, I was just—” Kent says. He shrugs. “I was just offering.”

“I don’t need you to offer,” Tomas snaps.  Kent doesn’t say anything, just kind of stares at Tomas.

There’s a couple of seconds of silence, and then suddenly Simone says, “ _Est-ce que tout va bien ici?”_ from beside them.

Kent starts, almost knocking over his glass. Tomas tries to school his expression into something polite so he can look up at Simone and say, “ _Tout est parfait_ ,” with as little sarcasm in his tone as he can manage.

She smiles and disappears, and Tomas turns back to Kent to maybe explain that he just needs Kent to say, “that sucks”, except like he actually means it.

Before he can say anything, Kent shoves his chair back and stands up. His face is blank. When he speaks, his voice is flat. “I—Sorry, I can’t do—” he says, gesturing vaguely. “I have to—I’m sorry.”

He turns and all but runs out of the restaurant.

Tomas stares after him. He’s too shocked to move for several long seconds. Should he go after him? What the hell just happened?

_“Hey, where’s your friend gone?”_ Simone asks inquisitively when she appears at the table.

Tomas tears his eyes away from the door through which Kent has vanished and looks back at Simone. “ _I have no idea_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter one this week, but next week's is a doozy. 
> 
> "Si t’as supprimé mon article, tu vas fucking finir aux calice de vindanges." = If you deleted my article, you're going to end up in the fucking trash can.  
> "C’est bon de te voir!" = It's good to see you!  
> “Comment on se débrouille dans les qualifications de la Coupe d’Afrique?" = How did we do in the Africa Cup qualifications?  
> "Tu n’as pas regardé le dernier match?" = Did you not watch the last game?  
> “J’sais pas. C’etait quand?” = I don't know. When was it?  
> “Tu ne sais pas? T’es un horrible traitre. Qui est ton ami?" = You don't know? You horrible traitor. Who's your friend?  
> “C’est Kent. Kent, c’est Emmanuel. Emmanuel, as-tu une table pour deux pour nous?" = This is Kent. Kent, this is Emmanuel. Emmanuel, do you have a table for two for us?  
> “Pour toi, toujours.” = For you, any time.  
> "Merci" = thanks.  
> “Crisse, j’suis fatigué. Ça te dérange pas si je m’y tient au Français, non?" = Christ, I'm tired. You don't mind if I tell you in French, right?  
> “Bon appétit,” = Enjoy your meal  
> “Ça a l’air delicieux." = It looks delicious  
> “Tu aimes ça?” = Do you like it?  
> “Est-ce que tout va bien ici?” = Is everything okay here?  
> “Tout est parfait." = Everything is perfect.
> 
> Leave me a comment to make me gently buzz out of my skin due to my love for you. 
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: Tomas had a shitty day and Kent ran out while they were at Tomas' favorite restaurant. This week: Kent finally talks to his best friend, Tomas does not. Secrets, explanations, apologies and concern; in short, communication! Also: Much-deserved hugs. 
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

_[4] missed calls from Tomas_

**Kent [9:11 pm]:** sorry

  
         -------------  


Swoops looks a little annoyed when he opens the door, but Kent’s face must be a sight, because his expression shifts to worry almost instantly.

“Hey,” Kent says. His voice is hoarse, probably from the crying. God, he’s a fucking mess.

“Dude, what…” Swoops says, his eyes trailing over Kent’s probably-disheveled hair and down to his wrinkled, sweat-soaked shirt.

“I—Can I come in.” It doesn’t really come out as the question Kent means it to be. He’s so tired.

“Shit, yeah, of course.” Swoops pulls Kent forward into the house and through to the living room. Sanne is watching TV on the couch, but looks up when they come in. Her eyes dart to Kent, then to Swoops, and there’s a few seconds where they exchange glances that Kent doesn’t try to interpret.

“I’m going to head upstairs,” Sanne says. It takes her a moment to stand up, what with her eight-months-pregnant body. Kent thinks he’s probably supposed to find it a little funny, maybe chirp her a bit.

He lets Swoops push him to the couch once she’s disappeared into the hallway. “What’s going on?” Swoops asks.

Kent shrugs. He doesn’t really want to talk, all of a sudden. He’s so tired, and he feels shaky and cold and numb. He thinks he might be shivering, but he can’t really tell.

Swoops probably thinks he’s gone off the deep end. Kent stares at his shoes so he doesn’t have to see whatever expression is on Swoops’ face.

It’s quiet for a moment, and then Swoops says, “I’ll be right back.” He gets up and disappears into the kitchen.

Kent kicks his shoes off and pulls his legs onto the couch so he can curl up against the armrest. He glances at the clock. It’s less than two hours since he was waiting outside Divo, but it feels like a lot longer than that. Particularly the bit in the car afterwards, but that makes sense because he couldn’t really breathe, which always seems to make time slow down.

The seconds on the clock tick away into a minute, then another, and then Swoops comes back with two mugs.

“What’s this?” Kent asks.

“Chamomile tea.”

“Ew,” Kent mumbles.

“You look like you need it.”

He doesn’t dispute that. The mug is hot between his fingers, which is nice. He pulls his knees a little closer to his chest and rests the mug on top of them.

Swoops sits on the other side of the couch and watches him. Kent carefully sips his tea. It’s gross but kind of soothing.

“So what’s… what’s up?” Swoops says eventually. He sounds careful, like if he asks the question too loudly, Kent will flee.

Kent shrugs again. “Nothing,” he says.

“Uh,” Swoops says. “Dude, I’m—If you don’t want to tell me, that’s—I mean, that’s one thing, but there’s not nothing going on.”

Kent feels the corners of his mouth pull down. God, he really hopes he isn’t going to cry again. “I—I was…” he begins, but he doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence.

“Have some tea first,” Swoops suggests, when Kent doesn’t say anything else.

Kent sips his tea. “I—I fucked up,” he says, and okay, now he _is_ crying again, that’s fantastic. “Fuck,” he says, wiping at his eyes.

“Hey, shit, man, it’s okay,” Swoops says. When Kent glances over at him, he’s got both his hands hovering in the air, like he’s not sure what to do with them.

“No,” Kent says. “No, I’m—I fucked it up.”

“Fucked what up?” Swoops says. “I—You’ve got to start at the beginning, Kent, what’s going on?”

He’s been meaning to tell Swoops for weeks now, except he just kept putting it off. Every time he and Swoops were actually together, he got that same feeling he had in the restaurant earlier, that feeling like there’s lead in his stomach. But now he’s too tired even for that, so he might as well say it.

“I’m—I—I’m dating,” he says, wincing at the stutter in his voice. “I—I’m dating… I’m dating a guy.” He twists his head away so he doesn’t have to look at Swoops.

“Oh,” Swoops says. It’s quiet for a couple of seconds.

If Swoops kicks him out of the house, he doesn’t really have anywhere to go except his own empty apartment, because he knows he just fucked things up with Tomas. He clutches the mug of tea in his hands, even though it’s so hot it hurts. When he feels Swoops’ hand on his shoulder, he flinches, and Swoops pulls back right away, which wasn’t what Kent wanted.

“Since when?” Swoops asks quietly. He doesn’t sound angry or disgusted.

“Since when are we dating or since when am I—” Kent says. He can’t finish the sentence.

“I mean, I assume you’ve always been gay,” Swoops says.

“Fuck,” Kent says. “I—Are you—You don’t mind, right?” he asks. He can’t really hide the desperation in his voice.

“ _Kent_ ,” Swoops says. “Of course not. Of _course_ not.”

“Okay,” Kent says, and he thinks he’s relieved but somehow that just makes him feel more tired.

“So… you’re dating someone,” Swoops says after a little while. “What’s his name?”

“Tomas,” Kent says. “It’s Tomas, from—Tomas Nadeau.”

“Oh,” Swoops says again. “That’s great, he’s great.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “He’s—I’m—I like him so much.” It sounds childish, and he feels childish, and young and ridiculous.

“That’s good,” Swoops says. “What’s—so what’s going on? How long have you—and what happened that you’re—”

Kent swallows. “I’ve—we—it’s been like three weeks,” he says, dropping his head down onto his knees. He’s such a fuckup, it hasn’t even been a month and he’s messed it up. “He’s—I was—We were out. On a date. And I knew—I knew it was a bad idea,” he says. He’d felt his stomach drop when Tomas first texted him about that restaurant, but like an idiot, he’d still agreed to go.

“Yeah? How come?” Swoops says.

Kent lifts his head and steals a glance at Swoops, who looks concerned but calm, not weirded out or dismissive or anything. “I—” he says. “I don’t know.” He thinks maybe he does know, but he doesn’t want to say it, because he thought he was okay, he wants to be okay, he tried _so hard_ to be okay. “I called Jack, a while back,” he says instead. Then he realizes that Swoops doesn’t know about him and Jack. “Jack Zimmermann,” he adds. “Because he—I—we—”

Swoops sucks in a breath. “You and him were—”

“In the Q,” Kent says, mortified suddenly. “I mean, it wasn’t… It’s… I hadn’t really talked to him since. Well. I mean. He sort of—He almost died and then he didn’t want to talk to me, and I—I mean I didn’t really listen but then I did, and I hadn’t talked to him for a while—” He’s going nowhere fast, god, he’s too tired for this. “But I figured he’s, you know, he’s out, and he knows I’m—I mean, we were together, so he knew.”

“Right,” Swoops says.

“Yeah, so I called him, after Tomas—after he—when he said he liked me. And he said—Jack said I didn’t have to choose between him and hockey. Between hockey and being, you know.” And fuck it, it’s been weeks and he _still_ can’t just say the word. “And I thought—I mean that’s what I wanted, I just want to be with him, you know?”

“Mmhmm,” Swoops says quietly.

“He wanted to go out for dinner,” Kent says. “And I didn’t know—I should’ve said no. But I didn’t know how, and I thought it would be fine. I mean I know—I know people would just think it was dinner between friends. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I can’t—” He rakes his hands through his hair. When did he lose his snapback? While he was making his way to his car? While he was hyperventilating in the driver’s seat?

“Thinking about what?” Swoops says, and Kent doesn’t know if he’s really asking or just wants Kent to say it.

“People finding out,” he says, his hands clenching into fists in his hair, pulling on the strands. It hurts, but it feels better than the tension that wells up inside him just thinking about it. “People knowing I’m a fag.” He knows Swoops hates that word and he regrets saying it as soon as he’s done it, but it’s easier than saying _gay_. Swoops doesn’t comment, but he shuffles closer until Kent can feel the warmth of his arm right next to his own. Kent goes on, “The team spitting me out. Losing hockey. I don’t know, I just—god, I can’t… I was going to tell you earlier,” he says. “I was—Tomas said I should, and Jack said I should, and I wanted to, but I—I couldn’t—I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know if you—” He stops.

Swoops exhales slowly. He puts an arm around Kent’s shoulder and pulls him closer. Kent goes unresistingly until he’s leaning against Swoops’ side with his head on Swoops’ shoulder. He doesn’t think he expected Swoops to want him so close, after he told him.

“I’m glad you told me,” Swoops says. “It’s… It sounds like it’s been a hard couple of weeks.”

“Yeah,” Kent mumbles. “But it was supposed to be good. And it’s—it _is_ , kinda, because—I don’t know. I just… I’m with him, and then it’s okay, except I just…” He shakes his head against Swoops’ shoulder. “There’s all this _stuff_. When he’s at my place and I can’t stop thinking about when he’s leaving because I have to make sure the neighbors don’t see, or we’re at practice and it’s—If Kimmy or Tower decides to steal my phone, or if someone guesses why I’m late—and I know they won’t, and I know my phone has a password, but I just—god, I just want it to _stop_ ,” he breathes.

“You want to stop dating Tomas?” Swoops asks.

“No!” Kent says, so vehemently that he startles both himself and Swoops. He takes a deep breath. “No, no, I just—He’s great, I want… God, I want him,” he says, pulling his knees even closer to his chest. “But I can’t—I’m so _tired_ ,” he says, and suddenly he’s sobbing. “I’m so tired,” he repeats between heaving breaths.

“What—hey,” Swoops says, startled. His arm slips away from Kent’s shoulders, and he hovers over him for a moment, then pulls him closer again and pats him on the back. “Hey, Kent, hey, it’s okay.”

Kent cries for a while, and he thinks if he wasn’t such a goddamn mess he’d probably be embarrassed about that, but he doesn’t really have energy left for it. Swoops just rubs his back, and it’s comforting, but he also can’t really help wishing that it was Tomas here comforting him instead. He doesn’t even know if he’s going to get that back, and that thought just makes him cry more.

When he’s calmed down, he feels marginally better. Swoops presses his lukewarm mug into his hands again, and Kent tries to ignore his teeth clattering against the mug as he drinks the rest of it.

“Sorry,” he says when he feels up to speaking.

“It’s fine,” Swoops says, and Kent knows he means it, which is kind of a miracle. It’s quiet for a minute or so.

“I walked out,” Kent says suddenly, shame rising up as he realizes what it must’ve looked like to Tomas. “I just left him alone at the restaurant. Oh my god, I—I’m such an asshole. And he was having a bad day, he _told_ me he was having a bad day and I should’ve been there for him, and I just _left._ ”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Swoops says. “You just need to talk to him. Explain what you were thinking.”

“I don’t even know what I was thinking,” Kent says miserably.

“Okay.” Swoops’ voice is still calm, soothing. “It’s okay. Just… You need to talk to him. Does he know you’re thinking about this sort of stuff?”

Kent shakes his head. “I don’t think—I thought I was okay,” he says. “’Cause I… I’m with someone now, and I—I stopped thinking it would go away, I thought that was supposed to be good.”

“Stopped thinking what would go away?” Swoops says.

“Being, y’know.”

“Being gay?” Swoops says hesitantly. “You mean—you mean before that, you thought you were straight, or something? Or bi?”

“I dunno, I just thought I was weird,” Kent says uncomfortably. “And maybe the thing with Zimms was like… a phase or something. A teenager thing. And I never really got over him, anyway, so I didn’t really… There was never really anyone else, so I figured—I just didn’t think about it much, when I—if there were guys who…” He shakes his head. “But then I—then Tomas—he told me about him, and how he figured out he was—and that was kinda like how it was for me, so I—” He swallows.

“Dude,” Swoops says, and he sounds more shocked now than he has at any point so far. “Kent. _Dude_. You—Does anyone know about this?”

“About what?” Kent says.

“This. You. Are you—Who are you out to?”

“Just—just Tomas. And Jack, I guess. And you,” Kent says.

“Fucking hell,” Swoops says. “So you’ve just been—I thought—I mean I always figured you just didn’t want me to know but I didn’t think you weren’t fucking talking to _anyone_ about this, my _god_ , I can’t imagine how—”

“Wait,” Kent says, sitting bolt upright. “Wait, you _knew_? Oh my god, how—who else—how did you—”

“Woah, woah,” Swoops says, and Kent tries to keep his breathing under control because the last thing he needs right now is to have another hyperventilating episode. “Hey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“No, I—who—how did you know?” Kent demands, because if Swoops figured it out, maybe someone else has, too. Has he given it away, somehow?

“I—” Swoops says. “I saw how you were after the draft, man, after what happened with Zimmermann, and I thought… I mean, afterwards I just noticed stuff, here and there. Not that you were obvious or anything, and I don’t think anyone else realized. Obviously I never breathed a word to anyone,” he says, and Kent nods shakily. It’s quiet for a moment, and then Swoops goes on, “Kent, I’m sorry, I should’ve said something earlier. I didn’t know you were struggling.”

Kent sinks back against Swoops again. “Neither did I,” he mumbles.

Swoops tightens his arm around Kent. He’s quiet for a moment, and then he says, “So Tomas doesn’t know that you’re feeling like this?”

Kent shakes his head. “I—when he asked me about—about me being… being gay,” he says, and then he has to take a deep breath because he said the fucking word, which is pathetic, “I kind of—I freaked out about it. But then afterward… afterward it was better.”

“Until tonight,” Swoops says.

“Yeah,” Kent says. Except, is that really true? It’s not like this afternoon’s text conversation was the first time in the past month that it felt like his stomach was full of lead. “Maybe not. I’m just. I’m just so tired,” he mumbles. “And I—I’m such a dick, I ruined tonight, and it was like—it was like a first date, and he really wanted it, and he had a shitty day. But I don’t even remember half the stuff he said about it, I am the _worst_ boyfriend.”

“Hey, hey, that isn’t true,” Swoops says. “There’s going to be more chances to support him, okay? You just need to be honest with him about what’s going on.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Yeah, I… I will.”

“And, uh…” Swoops trails off, looking hesitant.

“What?” Kent asks tiredly.

“Do you think maybe you should talk to someone about this?”

“I’m talking to you,” Kent says, confused.

Swoops sighs. “I know, and that’s good. And you can always do that. But Kent—If you’re this stressed out about it, maybe… Maybe you should talk to a therapist.”

“I’m not _crazy_ ,” Kent says.

“Hey, no,” Swoops says. “That’s not what I mean.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Kent says, and it feels like a lie.

“I know. Kent, I know that. I’m not saying there is. I’m just saying—It sounds like—it sounds like all of this is really hard. And like you’re not feeling well. And a therapist can help with that.”

“Yeah,” Kent says quietly, because the idea of someone who’s going to make him feel better actually doesn’t sound so bad right now. “I—maybe.”

“But just talk to Tomas first.”

“Yeah,” Kent says again.

“And Kent? I think you’re great,” Swoops says, ruffling his hair, and Kent slumps against him and lets Swoops just hold him for a little while.

  
         -------------  


Tomas taps his fingers against his MacBook keys without actually typing as he waits for something interesting to happen in the stadium. The press box around him is quiet, everyone focused on the game that’s taking place below them on the ice, where the Aces are facing the Oilers. It’s halfway through the first period, and nobody has scored yet. The rink is nearly sold out, but the crowd isn’t that much louder than the press box—nobody seems as into the game as usual, though maybe that’s just what it seems like because Tomas can’t focus worth shit.

He’s got all the relevant stats pulled up, the framework for his game recap piece already drafted. He’s watching the game. He’s doing everything he’s supposed to do, but the usual low-key excitement isn’t there.

The Aces aren’t looking great, but neither are the Oilers, so far. Kent’s line hits the ice. Skids brings the puck forward from where he’d been hovering behind the Aces goal during the line change. He passes to Scotty and goes for a change himself. There’s some passes through the neutral zone, then Scotty turns the puck over. The Oilers charge forward on a two-on-one and send the puck cross-ice on a well-timed pass. For a second Tomas thinks he’s going to have to make a note about the first goal of the game. Instead, Sims shifts left-to-right in his goal in a split second and gloves the shot on an improbable save.

A wave of relief sweeps through the crowd in the arena. Tomas makes a note of the save—it’s definitely a Save of the Game candidate. The game goes to commercial break, and the ice crew pours out from the Zamboni gate to clear the shavings off the ice.

Tomas picks up his phone from beside his computer and unlocks it. He’s not really sure what he intends to do on his phone, so it’s probably not surprising that he ends up staring at his texts from Kent.

_[4] attempted calls_

**Kent [9:11 pm]:** sorry

_[2] attempted calls_

**Kent [6:18 am]:** i was asleep sry

**Kent [7:43 am]:** im home from the game at 8 probably

**Kent [7:49 am]:** if you want to come over

**Tomas [8:22 am]:** Okay, let me know when you leave the rink and I’ll head your way

**Kent [9:05 am]:** ok

**Tomas [1:42 pm]:** Good luck at the game :) Go Aces!

**Kent [1:58 pm]:** thnx

Kent has texted him ‘thnx babe’ in response to his good-luck text every time for weeks. Tomas doesn’t have a clue why he switched it up. Is he angry with Tomas? Does he think Tomas is angry with him? He’s not entirely wrong, because—Well.

He still has barely a clue what actually happened last night. Kent had been distracted and inconsiderate all evening, but Tomas definitely hadn’t seen it coming when he suddenly ran off. It must be something Tomas did—though he’s sure he didn’t do anything to warrant that kind of response.

He lets out a long sigh, ignoring the curious glance he gets from Leah, who’s beside him in the press box. He wishes he knew what Kent was thinking right now. Kent never did pick up his phone, last night, not when Tomas called right after he’d made some flimsy excuses to Simone, or when he’d called three times in a row ten minutes later, or when he’d called twice more later that night. So he doesn’t know if Kent is embarrassed (probably, if Tomas knows him at all) or just avoiding conflict.

Honestly, conflict avoidance is Kent’s middle name. Maybe Kent’s already over whatever was up with him yesterday, and he just doesn’t want to have to talk about it with Tomas.

He glances down at the bench, where he can just make out Kent talking to Beck. Beck nudges his arm and says something, and Kent laughs.

The Oilers put their first line on the ice after the TV time-out, so the Aces coach sends out his shut-down line, and Kent stays on the bench for the moment. McDavid and his crew don’t manage to get a shot on goal before they’re heading back to the bench. The Aces change, too: Kent, Scotty and Beck pour onto the ice with the second defensive pairing. Kent immediately steals the puck from an Oiler. He hasn’t looked bad this game, but he hasn’t looked completely himself, either. Kent’s default is “better than anyone else on the ice”—except maybe when he’s playing McDavid, who can give him a run for his money. Today, he looks fine, but there’s no spark. Or maybe Tomas is projecting.

There’s a bit of a commotion on the ice. Apparently he missed something. Kent makes a frustrated gesture and heads to the box. Tomas quickly glances at the jumbotron, which is showing the replay, where Kent definitely does high-stick someone in the face. Tomas grimaces.

“Number 90, two minutes for high-sticking,” the referee says over his mic. There’s a bit more discussion between the refs, and two of the Aces are gesturing at an Oilers player who they seem to believe should get a penalty too. But the replay doesn’t show him doing anything wrong, and the refs agree, so the Oilers are going on the powerplay.

Tomas looks back at the jumbotron just as it shows the camera zooming in on Kent’s face through the glass of the penalty box. Kent is looking at the ice, wiping his face with his sleeve. He looks fired up and sweaty, as he usually does during a game, but Tomas doesn’t think he’s imagining the bags under his eyes. Maybe he hasn’t slept well either. Or had Kent looked tired yesterday too? Tomas doesn’t know. Maybe Kent hadn’t been in a good headspace last night either, but dammit, Tomas isn’t a mind reader, so how was he supposed to know?

The Aces win the opening face-off of the Oilers’ powerplay, but they don’t hold on to the puck for long. Skids passes it to Eskola, but Eskola is in the wrong place, and the pass gets intercepted by Oilers forward Lucic, who makes a long cross-ice pass to Draisaitl. Draisaitl pulls his stick back and one-times the puck, and it sails over Sims’ shoulder into the back of the net.

The crowd groans in disappointment as the Oilers celebrate and Kent skates back out of the penalty box, just seconds after he went in. Tomas bites down on some choice French swear words. He doesn’t usually have trouble sticking to the press box rules—no cheering, no talking, just sit down and write—but he’s tired and annoyed and he doesn’t want Kent to lose today.

If Kent loses, he’ll be frustrated and upset, and that can’t help them when they talk tonight. Because yeah, Kent _is_ conflict avoidant, and hard to read, and all of that will be worse if he’s also in a bad mood.

Tomas watches the replay on the screen and grumbles internally at Eskola’s shitty positioning. That’s when he remembers he should be making notes, not just sitting here. He spends the rest of the period actually paying attention. The Oilers score again four minutes later, so the Aces go to first intermission with a 2-0 deficit.

He pulls his phone out again when the Zamboni drives onto the ice. He really shouldn’t, but there’s not much work to do on a game recap in the intermissions, and he’s not in the mood to leave the box or talk to his colleagues.

**Tomas [3:01 pm]:** How’s your Saturday?

**Émilie [3:02 pm]:** Fine, just doing prep for tonight

**Émilie [3:02 pm]:** Aren’t you supposed to be reporting on a game right now?

**Tomas [3:02 pm]:** I am, it’s first intermission.

**Émilie [3:04 pm]:** Is that a period at the end of that text

**Émilie [3:05 pm]:** What’s wrong??

**Tomas [3:05 pm]:** Nothing

**Tomas [3:05 pm]:**.

**Émilie [3:06 pm]:** Lies

**Émilie [3:06 pm]:** What’s wrong?

**Tomas [3:06 pm]:** I think we had a fight

**Émilie [3:07 pm]:** You THINK you had a fight?

**Tomas [3:07 pm]:** Yeah

**Tomas [3:07 pm]:** Idk, it was weird

**Tomas [3:08 pm]:** It’s probably nothing

**Tomas [3:08 pm]:** I should get back to work

He puts his phone away before he can see Émilie’s inevitable request for more details. The rest of intermission, he tries hard to actually focus on preparing his game recap. He needs to figure out what to ask the Aces players—he’ll want to talk to Sims, probably, about that save and about the Oilers goals…

The second period is scoreless. He doesn’t look at his phone in the second intermission. He shouldn’t be telling Émilie about Kent, anyway—he thinks maybe Kent wouldn’t like having someone else know about this.

In the third, the Aces actually manage to get some momentum, and they outshoot the Oilers 7-1 in the first few minutes, but there are no goals until the Aces’ third line goes in. Then Swoops sees an open corridor. He slaps the puck forward to Krupnov, who passes it off to Biryukov and slides in front of the Edmonton goalie for a screen. Biryukov takes two short strides to the side and then slides the puck into the goal with a beautiful wrist shot.

The rink explodes into cheers. It’s always a little weird to be in the press box for goals, especially home goals, because everyone just looks dispassionately at the ice and then makes notes with the same expressionless face. Tomas thinks he’d have a serious problem if he ever became a Habs beat reporter, because he definitely wouldn’t be able to treat goals this way. It’s bad enough when he watches Kent snipe pucks into the net on breakaways.

On the ice, Birds extracts himself from a pile of teammates to skate to the bench. The jumbotron replays the goal and Tomas makes his notes. “ _Un de plus, s’il vous plait_ ,” he mutters under his breath as play picks up again.

It’s the last goal in the game, though. The rest of the third is scoreless, even when the Aces pull Sims to play open net. The rink is quiet as the Aces file off the ice. Tomas sighs as he closes his laptop and finds the recording app on his phone for his player interviews. Hopefully, this loss isn’t going to make his upcoming talk with Kent worse than it was already bound to be. He just wants Kent to be okay—he just wants to know what the hell happened last night. He just wants Kent to explain why he left, and for them to figure out a way to move forward.

He’s profoundly glad that Kent isn’t available for a post-game interview today. It’s hard enough already to pretend they barely know each other when he spends half his mornings making breakfast in Kent’s borrowed t-shirts. That would probably be worse when he’s also worried and frustrated.

Instead, he interviews Sims, Skids, and Birds. Birds is an awful interview as always. He never hides the fact that press is his least favorite part of the job, but on top of that he gives Tomas dirty looks whenever he asks a question. Tomas knows there are people in the Aces locker room who would probably beat him up if they thought they could get away with it. That’s the worst part of his job here, and it doesn’t help when Birds reminds him.

He’s exhausted by the time he’s gone through his interviews, slapped some quotes into his game recap piece, and sent it off. He feels like it’s midnight, but when he gets home, it’s barely past seven. He bums around on hockey twitter as he makes himself dinner and watches TV as he eats it. He tries not to think about tonight. It doesn’t work.

It’s almost 8 pm when his phone buzzes beside him.

**Kent [7:52 pm]:** going home now, there in 10

**Kent [7:52 pm]:** or 20 if traffic

**Tomas [7:53 pm]:** Okay, see you soon

Traffic isn’t bad, and he makes it through the dark streets of Vegas to Kent’s apartment in just over fifteen minutes. Before he knows it, he’s ringing Kent’s doorbell.

Kent is pale and clearly nervous when he opens the door. He’s in sweatpants and a dark green zip-up hoodie. His eyes flick up to meet Tomas’ for a fraction of a second, then he averts his gaze. The evident anxiety in every inch of his posture is… worrisome, really, and kind of unexpected.

“Hey,” Tomas says.

“Hey,” Kent says quietly. His eyes dart up and down Tomas’ body again. He takes a step back to let Tomas in.

When the door clicks shut behind him, Tomas steps closer and opens his arms a little, though he suddenly isn’t sure that Kent will want to touch him. But Kent steps forward immediately and grabs tightly onto him, though he moves away again within seconds. It’s long enough that Tomas can feel the tension in his entire body.

“Come on,” Kent says. His voice wavers on the words. He swallows visibly and turns to head to the living room. Tomas feels like his heart is being squeezed out of his chest. God, he doesn’t want Kent to feel like shit, and he obviously does. Maybe yesterday, he should have…

He reels in his thoughts. He shouldn’t have _anything_ —Kent should have talked to him, instead of running out at the first sign of conflict. How was Tomas to know what Kent would do?

They end up on either side of the couch, because Tomas sits down at one end and Kent tucks himself tightly into the opposite corner, legs pulled to his chest, as if he’s trying to squeeze his five feet and ten inches between the couch cushions so he can disappear. It’s unpleasantly reminiscent of how they used to watch their reality TV back when Tomas still thought Kent was straight and uncomfortable with him. Tomas isn’t sure if Kent doesn’t want to touch him, or if he thinks that Tomas doesn’t want him to. When he’d made Kent confess he was gay, there had been that moment where Kent had felt like Tomas maybe wouldn’t want to touch him anymore.

“So,” Tomas says uncertainly. Kent stays silent, looking down at where his fingers are fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “Do you… want to talk about last night?”

Kent swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says. He doesn’t meet Tomas’ eyes.

“For what?” Tomas asks.

“Walking out?” Kent says, like it’s a question. “Um. And not picking up the phone when you called.”

Tomas sighs. “Okay. I—Listen. You look—you look upset, and I’m not saying this to make you feel worse, but Kent, you can’t just walk away when I’m annoyed at you.”

Kent frowns a little. “You were annoyed at me?” Tomas raises an eyebrow, and Kent immediately adds, “I mean, obviously you were. It’s—uh, I know I wasn’t—I know you had a shit day and I didn’t, you know…” He trails off, looking contrite. After a second, he adds, “So I’m not—it makes sense that you’d be annoyed.”

Wait, if he didn’t already know Tomas was annoyed, then he _didn’t_ walk out as some sort of extreme conflict avoidance strategy. So then what…

Before he can ask, Kent continues, “I’m sorry. I—I know this was—Like when you got that commission and I didn’t, uh, you wanted me to be happy for you and I… And yesterday you were feeling bad and I didn’t—I did the same thing, so—”

“The same thing?” Tomas asks, because he remembers Kent’s heaving breaths and the panic and misery the night he got his commission, and that was a far cry from Kent being distracted and running out. Unless… “Hold up,” he says. “Kent, what happened last night when you ran off?”

Kent’s eyes dart back and forth, never focusing on Tomas’ face. Eventually he looks down at his knees and says, “I dunno, I—You saw, that other time.”

“Saw what?” Tomas presses.

Kent loosens one arm from where he’s got them wrapped around his knees to wave a hand around vaguely. There’s a blush creeping up his cheeks. “You know. The—the—hyperventilating or whatever.”

“Shit,” Tomas says.

“Sorry.” Kent picks at a seam of his jeans. “I shouldn’t have—I should’ve said no. When you asked me. Uh, asked me to come to Divo with you. But I didn’t want—I knew you wanted to go, and I didn’t think—I mean—Maybe I should’ve known, but… God, this is fucked up.”

Tomas stares at him, growing horror making him feel cold all over. He has no idea what’s going on, but Kent had a panic attack last night, and apparently hadn’t even really wanted to go out—had he been sitting on panic the entire date? Was that why he’d been so distracted? His fingers are itching to reach out to Kent, but he’s all the way across the couch. Tomas takes a deep breath. “I don’t understand,” he says. “Can you tell me—Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Kent presses his face to his knees so his voice comes out muffled. “Swoops thinks I should see a therapist.”

“You—were you with him last night?” Tomas asks. Maybe Kent had gone there first. Maybe he at least hadn’t been alone when—

“Yeah,” Kent says. “I mean yeah, after…” He waves a hand again, though he doesn’t look up. “After the—the thing. I figured—I saw you called me, but I figured you’d be mad, which is fine, ‘cause I—I know I shouldn’t have…” He trails off, but before Tomas can say anything, he lifts his head. He’s gone pale now, and he looks over Tomas’ shoulder as he goes on, “I guess you were mad before then. Which makes sense. Anyway, I uh—yeah, I—I went to Swoops. I told him—about us. Last night, I mean.”

“Oh, you hadn’t told him yet?” Tomas asks, even though that’s really not the important part of the story. But he can barely wrap his head around what Kent is telling him, and besides, Kent had said a while ago that he was going to tell Jeff.

Kent swallows. “No, I was gonna, but I... I didn’t. But I—told him last night, and I was…” He pauses, swallows again. “I was upset. So he said… He said maybe I should—do that.”

“See a therapist,” Tomas says.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Tomas says. “Do you… do you think you should?”

Kent digs his nails into the fabric of his pants. “I thought I was okay,” he says. “I really did, I swear to God, Tomas, I wasn’t trying to—I didn’t mean for it to be like _this_.”

“Like what?” Tomas says. He tries to keep his voice level, even though he needs Kent to just _spit it out_.

Kent meets his eyes for the first time in what feels like hours. “I can’t stop thinking about people finding out about me,” he says, his voice raw.

“Oh,” Tomas says, barely more than an exhale. Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise—Kent had been so insistent, when he first came out, that Tomas couldn’t tell anyone. Maybe they should’ve talked about it more, but Tomas thought Kent was okay, hadn’t seen any reason to believe otherwise.

Kent’s eyes dart away again. “Last night, at Divo, I was, uh, I was nervous beforehand because we hadn’t been out before. For dinner, I mean. And I got—I was kinda—I thought it’d be okay, but then we got there, and they all knew you.” He swallows, tracing circles on his knee with one finger. “And the host, uh, Emmanuel—he had a—like a rainbow pin, and I thought—I don’t know. I thought—I’m not saying you’d have told him, but I thought maybe he could, uh, could tell, that I wasn’t just your friend.” He’s pressing his fingers down hard enough that his fingertips have gone white with the pressure, and Tomas’s fingers itch to reach out and hold his hand so he stops. Kent’s voice is low, like he’s pulling every word out with difficulty. “I didn’t want to—I should’ve said something earlier, but I didn’t want to be _that guy_ and like, walk out on a date. Though I guess I totally am that guy, so… Anyway, it was fine, but then uh, you said something about how I shouldn’t buy you stuff, and suddenly that girl was right there, and I—I don’t know. I was just.” He sucks in an unsteady breath.

“You panicked,” Tomas says, understanding dawning. He hasn’t really noticed Emmanuel’s rainbow pin in a while now, because he always wears it, and of course he hadn’t thought much about Simone showing up in the middle of their conversation. He trusts the people at Divo, and besides, he knows there’s nothing that would obviously give him and Kent away as a couple. But Kent clearly doesn’t feel that way, and he must’ve been beside himself with anxiety the entire time.

“Yeah, I guess,” Kent mumbles.

Tomas doesn’t know what to say. Kent looks like the picture of misery, and Tomas had _no idea_ this was going on. He rubs at his face. “Okay,” he says. Where does he start? “Okay. You know—You know I wouldn’t have taken you there if I thought it could out us, right?”

Kent shrugs one shoulder. “Yeah, I know.” He picks at a thumbnail, keeping his gaze away from Tomas. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I know you think I should be out.”

“I—what?”

“I know you think I should be out,” Kent repeats. “But I’m not—”

“Wait, stop, back up,” Tomas says. “What makes you say that?”

Kent bites his lip. “I dunno, just… You have this article on your blog that’s like… _Should closeted hockey players come out?_ And your answer is basically yes. And I get it, ‘cause you’re out, and I know you talk about, like, what that means for queer visibility and influencing sports culture, and making it safer for younger players who are queer and stuff, so.”

“When did I even write that?” Tomas says. Probably not the most relevant question, but this conversation has taken half a dozen turns so far that have totally blindsided him, so he thinks he can be forgiven for that.

“I don’t know, a while ago?” Kent says. “I found it right after we met. I don’t know. I was just going through your old posts, clicking on random stuff, I…” He trails off and looks away. “I threw up,” he says suddenly, as if he hadn’t decided he was going to say it until he did. “When I read it. I didn’t even really know why. It’s not like I thought it was really about _me_ at that point. I just, it made me—” He glances over at Tomas, who can only guess at the horrified expression that must be on his face. Kent _threw up_ just reading an article? When he sees Tomas’ face, Kent cuts off whatever he was going to say and goes violently red. “ _Shit_ ,” he says. “Shit, sorry, I know it’s your work, I didn’t mean…”

Tomas rubs at his forehead. “Kent,” he says helplessly. “Kent, _mon minou_ , _écoute-moi_.” Kent takes a deep breath before finally meeting his eyes. “First of all, I wrote that years ago. Second of all, that wasn’t about you. I don’t even know if I still believe that. But I would never—I would _never_ make you come out. I don’t expect _anything_ like that from you. Okay?” He takes a deep breath and tries to stay calm, but he feels overwhelmed and worried and he desperately wants to make Kent feel safer than he does. And he thinks, beneath it all, he might be hurt or maybe even insulted, that Kent would think Tomas would make him be out. But he doesn’t think that stems from anything other than a general anxiety problem Kent seems to be having, so he tries to let it go, not take it personally. “I want—I want you to be okay. I don’t think— _obviously_ you should not come out. God, Kent, what the _hell_ have you been going through without—Why didn’t you _tell_ me? _Crisse de tabarnak_ , if you’re this worried about it, why the hell are you even _dating_ me?”

Kent’s eyes snap to his. “Are you… Are you breaking up with me?” he says. _Crisse,_ how did he get _that_ idea from what Tomas said?

“ _No_ ,” he says, leaning forward. He’s reaching out toward Kent, but Kent doesn’t move closer, so he puts his hand back down. “No, Kent, I am not breaking up with you. But you—This wasn’t just this date, was it?”

“I guess not,” Kent mumbles, looking away again. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

Tomas shakes his head a little and rubs at his face. “It’s okay. It’s okay, but you gotta _talk_ to me, Kent, I’m not a mind reader. It’s not fair to me when you keep stuff like this locked up.”

Kent meets his eyes, his expression firm. “You’re right. I know. I’m sorry and I’ll do better.”

“Okay,” Tomas says. “Okay, good.”

Kent nods and wraps his arms around his knees again, his sure expression already sliding off his face. Tomas makes a frustrated noise and says, “Okay, can I—I hate that you’re all the way over there,” because the distance between them has abruptly reached the point of being unbearable.

The look of relief on Kent’s face would be almost comical if the air didn’t feel so heavy with tension. Tomas sits up a little, and Kent shuffles over and lets Tomas pull him to his chest until they’re both stretched out along the couch, Kent between Tomas’ legs and leaning back against him. Kent lets out a shuddering breath and relaxes incrementally until he’s boneless against Tomas.

“Okay,” Tomas says after a while, when he’s had a chance to try to sort through the whirlpool of thoughts in his head. “Can you tell me what you need from me?”

“What?” Kent mumbles.

“I mean…” Tomas lets out a long breath. “You shouldn’t keep going like this. I don’t—I don’t want this for you.” Kent doesn’t say anything, but after a long moment, Tomas feels him nod. “Right,” he says. “So…” He doesn’t want to say what he’s going to say next, but he does it anyway. “I’m not breaking up with you, but do you… Do you need to not be dating me? Because you haven’t been—This uh, this hasn’t been something you’ve been sharing with me, and I don’t know—”

“No,” Kent interrupts, his voice breathless. “I do—I want—I didn’t really—” He stumbles over the words. Tomas runs a hand down Kent’s upper arm, and Kent takes a deep breath and says, “I didn’t do it on purpose. I just didn’t think—I didn’t think it was this bad, but I don’t want—Fuck. I don’t want to stop dating you. I mean—It’s not like I’ll feel better if we break up, and then I also won’t have you.”

Tomas presses a kiss to Kent’s hair; he can’t help it. He doesn’t know how he’d cope if Kent did decide he needed to stop dating Tomas. He’d understand, sure, but then he’d have to watch Kent struggle from a distance and he doesn’t think that would be any easier. “Okay,” he says, and he’s pretty sure his relief is obvious in his voice. He strokes down Kent’s arm again. “But…” He thinks for a moment, not sure what he even wants to say. When he starts talking, he finds the words just come out by themselves. “But then I need you to communicate about this. I need you to tell me what you need from me. And I need you to be honest with me about what you can and can’t do. Because—and I know you didn’t do it on purpose, but I need you to understand that it didn’t feel great last night when I felt like shit and you didn’t seem like you wanted to hear it.”

“I’m sorry,” Kent says, grabbing Tomas’ hand and holding it tight. “I really am.”

Tomas doesn’t doubt his sincerity. He nods and finds himself smiling a little, but of course Kent can’t see either of those things. “Okay,” Tomas says. “Okay. I forgive you, it’s okay. We can do better in the future.”

“I will,” Kent says fervently.

They fall quiet for a minute, but it feels more comfortable now, now that Tomas knows what’s going on. He knows it still won’t be easy, but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s in the dark. After a minute or so, he says, “So. What _do_ you need?”

“Therapy, probably,” Kent says drily. His voice shifts back to something more hesitant when he follows it up with, “I feel fucked up.”

“For needing therapy?” Tomas asks.

“Yeah.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he says.

Kent sighs. “Yeah. I guess. I’ve been—I was thinking about it all day. Since Swoops brought it up. And I don’t—I don’t think I can keep doing this, so I guess he’s right.”

 “Yeah,” Tomas says, squeezing Kent’s arm. They’re quiet for another little while. “What else?” Tomas asks after a moment.

“What do you mean?”

Tomas hesitates. He still feels like he’s guessing at just how far Kent’s anxiety reaches. Maybe he just needs to get a sense of that, first. “So you told Swoops, right? Are you okay with him knowing?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He sounds non-plussed, like he’s surprised at the change in topic.

“Okay,” Tomas says. “I told Émilie. Like I asked. Is that—Is that okay for you?”

He can feel Kent stiffen in his arms. “Yeah.”

“ _Kent_.” He takes a deep breath. “I seriously do need you to be honest with me.” Shit, this is bad, because he can’t take back the fact that he told Émilie.

“No,” Kent whispers. “But you—if I get to tell someone—it’s not fair, and I’m—it’s okay, I told you that you could, and—”

“Stop,” Tomas says. “Stop. It’s not about what’s fair. You _need_ to be honest with me. About what’s okay with you. About being in public, or telling people, or—whatever else. Okay?” Kent nods against his chest. “Okay. I can’t—I obviously can’t undo the fact that I told her. But—I mean, if it helps, I can tell you again that she’s sworn to secrecy and I absolutely trust her. Okay? And we can talk about it again later.” Kent nods again, and Tomas says, “What else makes you nervous?”

Kent shrugs. “I dunno. Like…” He falls silent for a little while. “Uh. When, uh, when I’m over at your place, I can’t—You said you’d give me your keys. So I could go for a run in the morning.”

“Oh,” Tomas says, frowning. He remembers the first night he came over, when Kent had given him a key card and Tomas had made a joke that had fallen totally flat. “You don’t want my keys? Is that moving too fast? That’s fine, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Kent interrupts. “No, it’s… I can’t…” He tilts his head to the side to hide his face against Tomas’ arm. “I can’t go for a run,” he mumbles. “I… if I… if someone sees me at your place, I’m… It’s fine if I’m leaving at night, but in the morning, I…”

“ _Mon minou_ ,” Tomas says, and he can’t quite hide the shock from his voice. Shit, this isn’t just about being seen together, or about people being in the know, this is much bigger. He’s clearly just scratching the surface of how deep this goes for Kent.

Kent flinches in his arms. “Sorry, sorry, I know it’s ridiculous,” he says.

“No,” Tomas says, because on some level it _is_ , of course it is, but he knows that’s not how anxiety works. “No, Kent, it’s okay, I just—Okay. Would it help if you didn’t stay over? Or if I stayed over here instead?”

“I don’t know,” Kent mumbles. “It’s… Maybe. But when you’re here, then in the morning, it’s…”

“Someone could see me when I leave,” Tomas fills in, something heavy in his stomach. God, this must’ve consumed Kent’s thoughts all the time.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Tomas says. “We can think about it. About what makes it easier. Okay? We can—you can tell me what makes you anxious. You don’t have to just go along with what you think I expect from you, or—” A horrifying thought occurs to him then. “ _Crisse de tabarnak,_ ” he says. “When you—when we have sex, are you—does it— _Fuck._ ” The idea that Kent has said _yes_ to Tomas touching him, bringing him off, when he didn’t really want to, doesn’t even bear thinking about.

“ _No_ ,” Kent says, his head shooting up. He twists so he can look Tomas in the eyes, and he looks certain and emphatic when he says, “No, stop, stop, Tomas, stop. I wanted to sleep with you, okay? I _want_ to sleep with you. I swear to god. I haven’t… You haven’t… I _love_ it,” he says firmly. “Okay? Stop. Don’t go there.”

Tomas breathes a little easier. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. That’s… okay.”

Kent blows out a breath, turns, and sinks back against Tomas’ chest. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“For what?” Tomas says.

“Making you think… you know.”

Tomas sighs. “It’s okay. Just… You can tell me no. Not just about sexual things. You can tell me no about staying over, or meeting up, or going on a date. Like yesterday, when I texted you—I can’t guess what is and isn’t okay for you. So you have to help me by actually saying no, okay? Even if you can’t explain why right away.”

“Okay,” Kent says. “Okay, I—yeah. I’m sorry. For not doing that last night.”

“Okay,” Tomas says. “It’s okay.” Kent relaxes further into his embrace when he hears the words.

They fall silent for a while. Tomas has no idea what time it is, and there are thoughts racing through his head.  

“I’m so tired,” Kent mumbles after a while.

Tomas huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Me too. I don’t think either of us slept well, eh?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “You want to go to bed?”

Tomas hesitates. “Are you okay with me staying over?”

Kent traces circles on one of Tomas’ knees. “Yeah.”

“I mean, for when I have to leave in the morning,” Tomas says.

Kent huffs out a breath. “Yeah, I know. It’s okay. It’s not like it’s the first time, and I’ve survived all the others.” He flinches as soon as the words are out. “Fuck, that sounded fucking rude, it’s not like I just put up with you,” he says. “I just mean, it’s… I want you to stay over, way more than I want to not deal with having to worry about it in the morning, you know?”

Tomas isn’t sure he quite followed that sentence, but he gets the gist. “You mean it’s worth it.”

“Yeah. Yeah, totally,” Kent says. “Please?”

“Okay,” Tomas says. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

They get changed and brush their teeth in silence. Kent is the first to get in the bed, and when Tomas joins him, Kent pulls him close. He takes a deep breath. “Hey. You’re amazing,” he says, leaning up on one elbow so he can cup Tomas’ cheek with his free hand. “Seriously, I’m—You’re amazing. Thank you.” He leans down and kisses Tomas, soft and sweet, then kisses his cheekbone on one side and the other.

Tomas smiles at him in the darkness. “You too,” he says.

Kent lies back down, pulling Tomas closer so he’s got his back to Kent’s chest. Kent wraps an arm around him and buries his face in Tomas’ neck, pressing kisses to his skin there. Tomas hums appreciatively. A few moments later, Kent’s movements go slow with drowsiness.

“Can you tell me goodnight?” he asks, his breath tickling Tomas’ neck.

“Goodnight,” Tomas says, a little bemused.

“No,” Kent says with a chuckle. “In French, like you always do.”

“Oh,” Tomas says. “ _Fait de beaux rêves, mon minou.”_

“You too,” Kent whispers, like he always does.

Kent is asleep within minutes. Tomas lies awake for longer, because he’s exhausted but it’s not that late. He’s got too many thoughts running around his head to really settle down.

His phone buzzes on the bedside table, and he extricates himself a little bit from Kent’s embrace to grab it.

**Émilie [10:04 pm]:** So any update on the fight?? Deets?

He looks at the screen for a while, then glances at Kent sleeping peacefully beside him. His face is relaxed now, but Tomas imagines he can still tell that Kent is paler than usual. 

**Tomas [10:05 pm]:** Wasn’t really a fight

**Tomas [10:06 pm]:** but we worked it out

**Émilie [10:07 pm]:** I’m going to need more than that

**Tomas [10:08 pm]:** Later, ok? I’m pretty beat

**Émilie [10:08 pm]:** Okay but “later” better not mean “never”!!

He ignores the little twist of guilt in his stomach at that last message and puts his phone back on the bedside table. When he lies back down, despite the early hour, it’s not that long before he falls asleep, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Mon minou, écoute-moi" = Sweetheart, listen to me.  
> “Fait de beaux rêves, mon minou.” = Sweet dreams, sweetheart.
> 
> Whew! Look who finally talked to each other, eh? Better late than never! 
> 
> I know people had lots of thoughts on why Kent ran out and what would happen next, last week in the comments! Was it what you expected? What did you think of Swoops? And of Kent finally being honest with Tomas about what's going on? Comments are my life blood so come talk to me. Seriously, I will rave about my characters all day so don't hesitate to ask questions or share your observations :D
> 
> (Also if you're a hockey fan, throw in your team and your thoughts on the playoffs!)
> 
> Next week: Therapy and smut. (Good combo.)
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: Admissions, communication, and lots of hugs as Kent came out to Swoops and Tomas finally got some insight on what's been going on. This week: Therapy. (Also some other things.)
> 
> Thanks to C and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

It’s almost 7:30 when Kent wakes up, which is a testament to how fucking tired he’d been last night. His weather app says it isn’t all that warm yet, so he feeds Kit and then goes for a quick run and has a shower. Tomas is still asleep when he steps out of the bathroom, so Kent wanders to the kitchen and settles at the breakfast bar with his laptop. Kit hops up onto the bar beside it and tries to lie on his keyboard, so he sets her down on the stool next to his and pets her with one hand so she’ll stay there instead of climbing back onto his computer.

He’s just going to google. He doesn’t have to do anything yet. He’s just going to google and see what comes up.

He takes a deep breath and opens up a new incognito tab. Then he stares at the search bar for a few minutes, trying to figure out how on earth to word his search. Finally, he types in ‘las vegas therapy’. He hesitates. His heart hammers in his chest as he adds ‘lgbt’ to his search and presses _enter_.

He can feel his breathing speed up as he stares at the results, full of page titles like ‘Gay clients in Las Vegas’, ‘Las Vegas LGBT Counseling for Couples, Individuals, & Families’, and ‘Counseling, psychotherapy, LGBT therapy’.

He clicks the first link and starts reading.

By the time he makes it to the third page, his hands are trembling on the keyboard. He kind of wants to just close all the tabs and turn on the TV and watch some morning talk show discuss celebrities. But the way he feels is probably just more proof that he needs to keep going, so he does.

“Morning,” Tomas says behind him. Kent starts violently, almost knocking his laptop off the bar. He turns to find Tomas in the doorway in his t-shirt and boxers, looking half-asleep but with his face shifting to worry. “You okay?”

“Fuck,” Kent says. “Sorry. Yeah. I was just…” He shakes his head, gestures at his laptop screen.

Tomas comes to stand behind his back, looking at the screen over his shoulder. “Oh,” he says after a few seconds. He slides an arm around Kent’s stomach. “Do you want help?”

“I want breakfast and to not think about what I’m doing,” Kent says, tilting his head back against Tomas’ chest.

“Okay,” Tomas says. He reaches over to pet Kit and then pulls Kent up from his stool. “Make me breakfast, then.”

“Bossy,” Kent says, feeling the tension from earlier slip away. He pulls Tomas to his chest and wraps his arms around him. “I let you stay over. Why don’t _you_ make me breakfast?”

Tomas yawns against his shoulder. “I don’t know, do you like burnt toast?” he says.

Kent laughs. Tomas is a good cook, just not before he’s had at least two cups of coffee. “Fine, fine. Sit down,” he says. He pushes Tomas to the bar and sets about making food.

They talk hockey over breakfast. The Aces are not doing well in division standings, and Beck isn’t going to be back for weeks. It’s still early in the season, but Kent has already heard people say that the Aces are going to miss the playoffs for the first time in six years. It’s annoying, because the season is nowhere near over.

Tomas gestures at the laptop when they’ve finished breakfast and he’s halfway through his second mug of coffee. “Do you want to go back to that?”

Kent pulls a face. “I guess.”

“You don’t have to,” Tomas says.

“I… Yeah, I know,” Kent says. “But I should. Or I’ll just… not do it.”

“Okay,” Tomas says. “Do you want me to head home?”

Honestly, Kent doesn’t want Tomas to ever leave. But it’s way too soon to say anything that even resembles a comment about moving in together. Also, he might actually die of stress if had to hide that from his neighbors and his team and the rest of the world.

“No, it’s… You can stay and, uh, help. If you like,” he says instead, pulling his laptop closer so it’s in front of him again.

“Sure,” Tomas says. He shuffles a little closer to Kent so he can see the screen. As Kent waits for his laptop to wake back up, Tomas wraps an arm around his waist.

It’s easier like this, with Tomas breathing steadily beside him. His warmth by Kent’s side helps keep him grounded. They’re quiet as Kent scrolls through the pages until he finds a searchable list of therapists in the city.

“He seems good,” Tomas says after a while, when they’re reading therapist bios.

Kent shakes his head, highlights the line in the guy’s bio where it says, “ _I focus primarily on issues faced by people with LGBTQ+ identities and am only accepting LGBTQ+ clients at this time._ ”

Tomas is quiet for a moment, then says, “Plausible deniability if someone finds out you’re seeing him?”

“Yeah,” Kent mumbles, trying not to feel the shame that rises up inside him. God, he’s such a mess. All of this is ridiculous; it’s not like anyone would find out he’s seeing a therapist, let alone _which_ therapist, let alone cyberstalk the therapist to find out who they provide therapy to, and _yet._

They go through another half dozen bios that mostly just make Kent nervous or uncomfortable, a lot of peppy talk about finding the right solution and healing trauma and cognitive adjustments. It’s probably relevant, but reading it makes him want to crawl into a hole and die.

On the next entry, the first thing his eyes find is the therapist’s photo. She’s maybe in her early forties, with skin as dark as Tomas’ and a dark blue hijab. He’s not really sure what makes him sit up a little straighter. Maybe it’s the kindness in her smile. Her bio says she’s a licensed psychiatrist and psychologist, lists off her “clinical interests”, and says that she works with in-person and Skype sessions. There’s not much else in it, which is kind of a nice change from all the upbeat, quotation-laden ones he’s been reading.

“That one?” Tomas says next to him.

“Yeah,” Kent says. Shit, he just picked a therapist, he actually did. He makes himself breathe out slowly. Tomas presses a kiss to his temple. “Fuck,” Kent says. “I… _fuck_.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Tomas says. “It’s okay.”

He’s not going to cry or hyperventilate. He’s going to bookmark the therapist and close his laptop, and he’s going to call her tomorrow and schedule an appointment.

Tomas stands up when Kent does, and Kent reels him in and kisses him, because he’s spent enough time for today admitting that he’s a disaster. When he pulls away, he puts on his best seductive smirk. “You wanna distract me from this bullshit?” he asks, waving a hand at his laptop.

Tomas huffs out a surprised laugh, but he doesn’t look opposed to the idea. “You sure?” he asks. Kent probably deserves that, because he may have told Tomas that he doesn’t need to check in for consent every three seconds, but he also hasn’t exactly been forthcoming about what he needed.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says. “You want to?”

Tomas leans in and kisses him in answer. “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Kent confirms, and drags him from the kitchen.

Later, after, he trails patterns on Tomas’ bare chest. Tomas has his eyes closed, a little smile on his lips. He looks sated and content, and Kent did that. It feels pretty good.

Kent slides his hand over Tomas’ soft stomach. “You never told me about your day,” he says. “Or. Well. That’s not true. But I wasn’t, uh—I’d love for you to tell me about your computer troubles and your deadlines again, so you can actually get it off your chest.”

Tomas’ smile widens, so he must’ve said something right. That feels pretty good too. “Right,” Tomas says. “Okay. I mean, it was all just little things, really. But—okay, so you know how Catrina keeps giving me last-minute assignments for no reason?”

“Uh-huh,” Kent says. He shuffles a little closer to Tomas so he can put his head on Tomas’ shoulder, and settles in for a good long rant.

  
         -------------  


Khadija Haile’s office is in some big office building that rents its spaces out to small businesses. Thankfully, the actual waiting room is around a corner where the rest of the building can’t see him. He twists his snapback around and around in his hands, then puts it on the chair beside his and pulls out his phone.

**Kent [10:55 am]:** wyd?

Thankfully, Swoops responds a minute later.

**Swoops [10:56 am]:** They said pregnancy cravings were supposed to decline during the third trimester

**Swoops [10:57 am]:** She’s 36 weeks and I’m at the store to buy grapes for the fucking thousandth time

**Swoops [10:57 am]:** Kent. I hate grapes. So much.

**Kent [10:57 am]:** lol

**Kent [10:58 am]:** sounds like ur bby loves them

**Swoops [10:58 am]:** I think it’s just Sanne’s hormones that love them

**Swoops [10:59 am]:** And ice cream

**Swoops [10:59 am]:** I’m getting ice cream to be safe

**Swoops [10:59 am]:** If I don’t bring ice cream I’ll just be here again in an hour

**Kent [11:00 am]:** stop saying ice cream

**Kent [11:00 am]:** now i want it

**Swoops [11:01 am]:** Need me to bring you some?

**Kent [11:01 am]:** whats this, the offseason?

**Swoops [11:01 am]:** Hah

**Swoops [11:01 am]:** What are you up to?

**Kent [11:02 am]:** yeah so

**Kent [11:02 am]:** i did the thing

**Swoops [11:02 am]:** What thing?

“Hi,” says a voice from his right. Kent almost jumps out of his chair. The woman from the online profile is standing in the door to her office. She’s wearing a bright red hijab this time, but she’s got the same friendly smile as she did in the picture.

“Uh. Hi,” Kent says, shoving his phone into his pocket.

“You must be Kent.” She holds out a hand as he stands up.

“Hi. Yeah. Hi,” Kent says, because he’s apparently destined to immediately embarrass himself in front of this woman. He shakes her hand and hopes desperately that his palms aren’t so sweaty that it’s noticeable.

“I’m Khadija. Come on in.”

Kent half expects a couch in her office, like in old-timey movies about Freud or something. But the office just has a desk with a computer, a filing cabinet, a bookcase, and a cozy seating area where three armchairs are set up in a circle. There’s a little table besides each of the chairs. One of them has a box of tissues on it. Kent bristles at the suggestion that he’s going to need tissues, before he remembers that, first of all, Khadija doesn’t know him, and second of all, he’s cried more in the past couple of weeks than in the half decade before that, so the tissues might be necessary.

“Would you like something to drink?” Khadija asks.

“Uh. Just some water?” he says.

“Sure. You can take a seat,” she says, gesturing at the chairs. Then she disappears in the direction of the little kitchenette area that Kent had passed on his way to her waiting room.

He settles in the closest chair and pulls out his phone.

**Swoops [11:03 am]:** Kent, what thing?

**Swoops [11:04 am]:** Does your sudden silence mean that you’re getting in trouble?

**Swoops [11:05 am]:** Seriously kent I don’t want to mother you but what are you doing.

**Kent [11:05 am]:** chill dude

**Kent [11:05 am]:** you are totally mothering me

**Swoops [11:06 am]:** What are you doing.

**Kent [11:06 am]:** dude nothing

**Kent [11:06 am]:** not nothing but it was ur idea

**Swoops [11:06 am]:** What was my idea

**Kent [11:06 am]:** therapy

**Swoops [11:07 am]:** Ohh okay

**Swoops [11:07 am]:** Okay. That’s good man

**Kent [11:07 am]:** go feed ur grl her grapes

He switches his phone to silent just as Khadija walks back in with a glass of water, which she hands to him, and a cup of coffee that she puts on the little side table beside one of the other chairs. Then she grabs a notepad and pen from her desk and sits down.

“I like to make some notes during intake sessions,” she says. “Is that all right with you?”

“Uh, sure,” he says.

She nods but puts the notepad down on the side table. Then she looks back up at him, and there’s a look on her face that he knows really well, a look that says _where have I seen this person before?_

He hasn’t really thought about what to do if his therapist was into hockey. That’s kind of surprising, because it seems like exactly the kind of thing he’d be worrying about. But he hadn’t really considered that a therapist might also be a sports fan, even though that’s obviously possible.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks.

Khadija shakes her head, but only looks more thoughtful now. “You do seem familiar,” she says.

“I play hockey,” he says.

He can see the lightbulb moment on her face, and it makes him smile a little, though he also feels something tighten in his stomach. “Oh!” she says. “Yes. Your name was familiar, too. Did you win a title a few years back?”

“The Stanley Cup,” Kent says, and he’s definitely smiling now, because winning his second Cup is one of his favorite memories. The first time, he had so much to prove that he’d been more relieved than happy. The second time, it had been just as much hard work, but he only remembers the exhilaration of it, of a season culminating in glorious victory, of hoisting the Cup over his head surrounded by teammates, all of them out of their minds with joy.

“Yes, that,” Khadija says. “I’m not much of a hockey fan.”

“Okay,” Kent says, sobering again. That’s good. It’s good that she’s not a hockey fan, he decides, because if she was—well, it would just be harder to trust her, tell her about himself, and not feel like she had ulterior motives in talking to him. “I—” He hesitates. “I, um. Get a lot of press. Who would pay a lot of money to, uh… know that I’m here.”

“I don’t tell anyone who my clients are, or anything about them,” Khadija says. “That’s true for any therapist, by law.”

“Okay,” he says again, breathing out slowly. “Okay. Good. Um.” He’s not sure if he’s expected to keep talking.

She saves him by saying, “Since it’s the first time you’re here, I’d like to talk a little bit about why you’re here, what’s going on, and what you want and expect from me. That helps me figure out if we can work together. At the end of this session, I hope we can decide whether I’m suited to help you, and if so I can tell you a little bit about what to expect from me.”

“Okay,” he says for what feels like the fifth time.

“What made you decide to contact me?” she asks.

“Um.” He swallows. “My friend Swoops thought it was a good idea.”

“Yeah?” she says, her tone neutral.

“I uh. He’s probably not wrong,” Kent says. “I’m. I’ve been. Stressed out. And tired. Because I keep—” He breaks off, hesitant. Khadija doesn’t say anything, just looks at him like she’s happy to sit there whether or not he keeps talking. It’s unnerving. He fiddles with a loose thread on the seam of his jeans. “I uh. Your online bio,” Kent says.

“Yes?” Khadija says.

“It says…” He takes a deep breath. “It says one of your clinical interests is, uh. LGBT clients.” He almost stumbles over the acronym.

Her expression doesn’t really change. He’s not sure whether that’s what he was expecting. “Yes,” she says. “Sometimes people experience distress because of their sexuality or their gender identity. They might come see me because they want to come to terms with who they are, or because they need help figuring out how to deal with family members or other people who don’t accept them, or because they’ve experienced trauma related to their gender or sexuality.”

“Okay,” Kent says. He’s glad they’ve already done the handshake because his hands are definitely gross and sweaty now. “So are you…” He trails off, not sure how to ask his question.

She smiles at him. “I’m bisexual,” she says.

He’s not sure how that makes him feel. Does it mean she can tell, about him? Do women have gaydar? Do bisexual people have gaydar? Is gaydar even real? If so, Kent got screwed over on that one. And it doesn’t really matter if she can tell, does it? Because she’s supposed to know about him, because she’s his therapist.

He just needs to say it and then he can deal with the consequences later. He takes a deep breath. “I’m gay.”

  
         -------------  


Kent ends up needing the tissues, but he still feels better when he leaves than when he arrived. The shakiness in his limbs is annoying, but it gets better as he has lunch and texts Swoops. By the time he makes it to the rink for his post-game-day workout, he feels more normal than he has in weeks. It’s kind of nice. He works with Andrew in the weights room for a while and hits the ice for thirty minutes to work on sprints. It’s quiet at the rink, just him and a handful of others who scheduled their workouts for this afternoon. When he gets back to the locker room after his shower, he’s not surprised when he unlocks his phone and finds a message from Tomas.

**Tomas [3:13 pm]:** How did it go?

**Kent [4:32 pm]:** yeah alrite

**Kent [4:32 pm]:** wanna come over

**Kent [4:32 pm]:** im making rice chicken n veggies

**Tomas [4:34 pm]:** No peppers?

**Kent [4:35 pm]:** wouldnt dare

**Kent [4:35 pm]:** green beans and carrots

**Tomas [4:36 pm]:** I have a meeting about long-term PR strategies or something in a minute

**Tomas [4:36 pm]:** Might take another hour or so

**Tomas [4:36 pm]:** I’ll text you when I leave

**Kent [4:37 pm]:** cool im at the rink just heading home now

**Tomas [4:37 pm]:** See you soon!

Tomas used to end those texts with x’es, but he stopped after Kent confessed he’s kind of terrified that one of his teammates is going to catch sight of an incoming message on his lock screen. Kent never outright asked him to stop, but it does feel safer. He just also misses the sight of the little ‘xx’ at the end of Tomas’ messages.

He’s just tasting the rice to see if it’s all the way done when his doorbell rings. Tomas presses a kiss to his lips when Kent lets him in, then follows him to the kitchen.

“How was your meeting?” Kent asks.

“Dull,” Tomas says. He sits down at the bar as Kent dishes out the food onto plates and brings it over. “Full team meetings are the worst.”

Kent kisses his temple and hands him his plate. “That sucks. This is with that guy who’s always complaining that the writing staff doesn’t do as much work as the social media staff, right?”

“Lennart, yeah,” Tomas says. “But he was out sick. Which is… Well. I don’t want to wish illness on people, but I didn’t miss him.” He grins a little, and Kent grins back. “Anyway, I honestly don’t even know why I needed to be there this week, because it was mostly about AcesTV. A bunch of stuff about how views have gone down even though game attendance is up, so they’re not connecting with the fans.”

Kent pulls a face. “Sounds dull. Also, I hope that doesn’t mean I have to do more bits.”

“It might, actually,” Tomas says teasingly. “You get the most views.”

Kent huffs out a laugh. “Well, can’t blame the fans for wanting to see more of me,” he says with a smirk, and Tomas rolls his eyes at him.

“Anyway, so I had that meeting, and then afterwards Catrina gave me one of her unnecessarily short deadlines,” he says. “So it looks like I’m going to have to postpone tomorrow’s blog post, which is annoying.”

Kent frowns. “Can’t you tell Catrina you can’t make the deadline? She’s always doing this with articles she could easily ask you to do earlier, right?”

Tomas shrugs. “It’s fine, I can make it work.”

“Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to,” Kent says.

Tomas smiles. “Thanks. But it’s seriously okay. I don’t want to put her in a jam, and I can be flexible with the blog.”

“If you say so,” Kent says.

Tomas recounts more of the meeting as they eat, gesturing as he talks about the opinions of colleagues he disagrees with. Kent’s almost finished his food when Tomas asks, “You wanna tell me about therapy?”

He shrugs a little. “I guess. It was… yeah. It was all right.”

“Did you like her?” Tomas asks.

“Sure,” Kent says, spearing a carrot with his fork. “She’s nice. She’s, uh. I told her… I told her I’m gay.” That word is getting easier and easier to say, which is probably a good sign.

Tomas nudges his side. “That’s good,” he says, and when Kent glances over, Tomas is smiling at him.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Yeah. Anyway, she asked a bunch of questions. About everything in my life, like, hockey, and the team, and my family and stuff. And about, you know, why I wasn’t, uh, doing well. And then she had me fill out a bunch more questions about stress and depression and stuff.” He’d told her he wasn’t depressed, and she’d asked him to fill in the questionnaire anyway, and then he’d answered _yes_ to way more of the questions than he expected.

“Okay,” Tomas says. “Do you think you’re going to keep going?”

“Yeah,” Kent says, because he really did like her, and he feels a little bit better just for having told someone how he’s feeling. “She said we can do, like, sessions twice a week. Probably once a week when I’m on roadies ‘cause those have to be over Skype and my schedule’s kinda messed up. And she said when I meet with her, she’s going to ask me questions and stuff to help me figure out what I’m, uh, what I’m thinking and why. And figure out stuff that stresses me out and like… find ways to do it anyway or find other things to do instead.” He’s pretty sure he didn’t used to blush this often, but his face feels like it’s on fire.

Tomas leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek. “That sounds great,” he says.

“Yeah,” Kent says. He lets out a long breath. “Yeah, it was good.” He hesitates. “I told her I want to talk about leaving the Aces.”

Tomas looks at him attentively. “Yeah?”

Kent takes a deep breath. He hadn’t really expected to bring it up with Khadija, but they’d been talking about what made him feel the most stressed, and mostly that’s his teammates. “Yeah. When I… When I talked to Jack, a couple weeks ago, he said—he said other teams aren’t as bad as the Aces.”

“The Wild had way more decent people on it,” Tomas says immediately, and Kent is reminded that he’s not the only one who has to deal with shitty, homophobic people in the locker room all the time.

“Right,” he says. “I haven’t really—I don’t really, uh, know what that’s like, I guess.”

Tomas blows out a breath. “It’s a hell of a lot better than Vegas,” he says. “There’s definitely teams where you could tell some people. If you wanted, I mean. When I was in Minnesota, I think there was one guy who gave me shit, at some point. One, and when some of the others overheard it, he got reamed out for it.” He shakes his head. “I really miss Minnesota sometimes, and not just because of the weather.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He leans against Tomas a little. “Do you regret moving here?”

Tomas is quiet for a moment. “Not really,” he says. “It’s—It was a good opportunity, and I like the work, and I’ve met lots of great people…” He squeezes Kent’s hand, then goes on, “And I don’t _hate_ it here, and I…” He trails off. “The Aces are…”

“They suck,” Kent says, and he finds that he really, really means it.

“It’s just a really bad atmosphere,” Tomas says. “I think that sort of stuff just develops over time, somehow, with guys feeding into each other’s bad habits. It’s hard to change after a while, and it sucks. Honestly, I’m dealing with it, but it’s not a good work environment. If I’d known how bad it was, I would maybe have gone somewhere else instead. So, yeah, I don’t blame you for thinking about leaving.”

“Yeah,” Kent says.

It’s quiet as they finish the rest of their dinner, but it’s nice, something peaceful about it. When they’re both done, Tomas insists on loading up the dishwasher while Kent feeds Kit and has her chase a toy for a little while. Eventually, she gets bored and wanders off, leaving Kent sitting cross-legged by the couch. He turns his head to find Tomas leaning back against the counter, looking at him with fond eyes.

He raises an eyebrow and stretches, knowing his shirt is going to ride up and show his abs. “Like what you see?” he asks as he puts his arms back down. The look in Tomas’ eyes has shifted to something more heated.

“You know I do,” Tomas says. He licks his lips, which sends a hot flash of _want_ through Kent’s body.

“I know you do,” he confirms, pushing himself up from the floor. “Wanna do something about it?”

“What did you have in mind?” Tomas asks.

“Mmm,” Kent says, giving it some thought as he crosses the room. There are a lot of options, and he’s about to suggest he can blow Tomas—because fuck, does he like giving blowjobs—when he remembers his schedule for the rest of the week. A surge of desire rushes through him. “You know, I have a recovery day tomorrow,” he says. “And just practice and coaching the day after that.”

Tomas doesn’t look like he’s cottoned on to what Kent is trying to say. Kent steps up and slides a hand under Tomas’ shirt, over the soft skin of his belly. Tomas exhales in a soft huff. “Okay,” he says, a little distractedly.

“So,” Kent says, pitching his voice to a lower register. He leans in to press an open-mouthed kiss to where Tomas’ neck meets his shoulder. Tomas tilts his head to the side so he can reach more easily. Kent kisses his neck again, and then says, “How about I take you to my bedroom, and take off your clothes, and get on my knees, get my mouth on you, get you nice and hard.”

“Okay,” Tomas repeats. He already sounds more than a little breathless, and his pupils are wide. Kent knows from their phone call on that roadie a while back that his voice _gets_ to him, and it’s amazing to actually see it. “Then what?” Tomas says, when Kent doesn’t immediately follow it up with more.

“Then,” Kent says against Tomas’ skin. He lets the word hang in the air for a few seconds before he continues, “I’m gonna take off _my_ clothes. Or you can, if you like—I know you wanna see more of this.” He leans back a little to gesture down at himself, smirking.

“ _Crisse_ ,” Tomas mutters.

“So I’ll get my shirt off first, let you look your fill—” He breaks off for a moment when Tomas slides a hand under his shirt. He has to focus to get his voice to stay where he wants it to be. “And when I’m all the way undressed, I’ll get on the bed and—ah, _fuck_ ,” he whines, because Tomas’ hands have found his nipples—one through his shirt, the other under it, and _god_ the friction is— “Stop that,” he hisses, grabbing at one of Tomas’ elbows and pulling his hand down. “I’m trying to focus here.”

Tomas laughs at him, and Kent can’t help a grin of his own. “Go on,” Tomas says mockingly. 

“Fuck you,” Kent says, but he can’t quite muster the appropriate amount of outrage.

“I’ll be good,” Tomas says. He puts his hands on Kent’s hips instead and holds them there.

Kent huffs but leans forward to kiss his neck again, finding all the spots he knows Tomas likes best. Before long, Tomas’s fingertips are digging hard into Kent’s hips. Kent pulls away again and says, “When I’m undressed, I’m going to get on the bed and spread my legs for you,” and has the satisfaction of hearing Tomas’ breath leave him in a rush.

“ _Crisse_ ,” Tomas says again.

“Mm,” Kent hums against his skin. “You like that? ‘Cause then you get to sit between my legs and open me up.”

“Kent,” Tomas says helplessly.

“That’s me,” Kent agrees, smirking against the skin of Tomas’ neck. Before Tomas can retaliate for the chirp, he goes on, “You gotta go slow—I’ll be tight, it’s gonna feel so good.” He loses himself a little bit in the thought, in the already overwhelmingly good sensation of Tomas’ warm body pressed against his. “Mmm, fuck, Tomas, I want it so bad,” he says.

“ _Kent_ ,” Tomas says again. He sounds wrecked, and Kent feels some sense of deep satisfaction that he can make Tomas feel like this, just by talking, just by spinning fantasies.

“And then,” he says. Tomas actually holds his breath, and Kent is half tempted to chirp him, but he doesn’t want to break the moment. “You’re gonna fuck me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tomas says. “Kent, ah, fuck, Kent, come _on_ ,” he rambles.

“Yeah?” Kent says, and Tomas actually whines at the huskiness in his voice. “You wanna?”

“ _Crisse de Câlisse_ ,” Tomas swears. “Yes, I fucking want to.”

“Cool,” Kent says with a smirk, voice purposefully light as he steps back and surveys Tomas’ wrecked expression. “Come on then.” He turns without another word and heads to the bedroom. There’s a second or two of stillness behind him, and then Tomas hurries after him, catching up just as Kent steps through the door.

“You’re a fucking tease,” Tomas accuses, still breathless, as he wraps his arms around Kent from behind.

“Yup.” It’s fucking hard to keep his tone so light, because it’s not like he isn’t incredibly turned on himself. He twists around and grabs the hem of Tomas’ shirt. Tomas lifts his arms and lets him take his shirt off. Kent tosses it to the side and slides his hands up Tomas’ chest, light touches over Tomas’ collarbones where he knows he’s sensitive.

“Fuck,” Tomas groans. “You, ah, I think we can skip the first part.”

“The part where I blow you?” Kent says.

“Yeah, that,” Tomas says. “Because you said something about getting me hard, and I think it’s too late for that.”

“Mm,” Kent says, a little bit disappointed even though there are other things in store. “Well, I guess there’s always next time.”

Tomas huffs out a laugh. “Next time, I promise,” he says. He leans in to kiss him, and Kent thinks he meant for it to just be a peck before they move onto other things, but they’re both horny as fuck, so it’s a while before either of them manages to pull away again.

Kent lets Tomas take his shirt off. They briefly let go of each other to get undressed the rest of the way, and then Tomas is nudging him toward the bed. “Go on, lie down,” he says, and Kent does, shivering at the friction of his sheets against his dick when he lies face-down on the bed. He grabs a pillow to bury his face in, because he thinks he’s going to need it.

He hears Tomas rummage around in his drawer for the lube, and then the bed dips beside him. Tomas runs a hand from his neck all the way down his back to his ass, and Kent clutches his pillow a little tighter.

“Let me know what you like?” Tomas says.

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” It’s been years since someone else fingered him, and neither Jack nor he had really known what they were doing. Even so, he remembers being physically incapable of staying quiet, even though they were fucking around in secret and both paranoid of being overheard.

“Have you done it by yourself?” Tomas asks. “So I know what you’re used to,” he adds. He traces circles on Kent’s lower back.

Kent breathes out slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Not—Fuck.” He feels his face heating up; thank god Tomas can’t see it. “Not ‘till after we—Not a lot. But yeah.”

“All right.” Tomas squeezes his ass, and Kent feels his breath hitch.

“Just,” Kent says. “Fuck. Just get on with it.” Tomas nudges his legs apart, and Kent spreads them, and then he feels Tomas’ slick fingers rubbing against his perineum. “Oh god,” he whimpers. God, it’s so good, it sends sparks all the way up his spine.

He’s afraid for a moment that Tomas is going to do the thing where he checks in with Kent every two seconds. Kent isn’t sure how long he’s going to hold on to coherent speech. But Tomas is quiet as he rubs his fingers back and forth until Kent can barely catch his breath. Then he moves up a little, rubs at Kent’s rim until he can press his finger in.

It’s a little easier then to not fall apart, because his body has to get used to the feeling, and Kent takes the moment to take some deep breaths and make an effort to relax. Tomas waits him out, finger in to the first knuckle, until the discomfort subsides enough that Kent lets out a deep sigh and pushes his hips back a little. Then he rubs his thumb over Kent’s rim as he slides his finger in a little further.

“Oh,” Kent whimpers.

Tomas does check in then. “Okay so far?” he says gently.

“Please,” Kent moans, which is not what he intended to say. But it works, because Tomas pushes his finger in just a little deeper and then slides it out. He pauses a moment, then gently pushes back in again. Kent muffles his moan in his pillow.

“ _Crisse_ , you’re hot,” Tomas says. He runs his free hand over Kent’s back, tracing patterns over his shoulder muscles.

Kent arches into the touch, which pushes Tomas’ finger in deeper. “Oh god,” he whines. “God, more, please, _please_ , fuck—”

“Not yet,” Tomas says, and really, he might be right because Kent did tell him to go slow and he probably isn’t ready for another finger, but fuck him.

“Fuck you,” Kent huffs. “I—Oh, oh god, oh _god_ ,” he sobs, because Tomas crooked his finger just enough to brush up against his prostate, and for a second he thinks he’s going to come right there on the spot.

“So gorgeous for me,” Tomas says. “ _T’es donc ben beau._ ”

Kent didn’t really think he was going to get off on being called beautiful, but the words still make him tighten his grip on the pillow he’s got his face mashed into. “Come on,” he moans.

Tomas presses in two fingers. Kent whines and tries desperately to catch his breath. He’s not very successful, because Tomas doesn’t waste a moment to twist both of his fingers until he can rub against that spot again.

Kent loses himself in the sensations, two fingers in him, then three several long minutes later. He’s being loud, even with his face pressed into the pillow, but he can’t really bring himself to care. Tomas likes it, anyway, but even if he didn’t, Kent doesn’t think he could be quiet if he wanted to.

He’s pretty sure he’s hovering on the edge of coming. His dick slides against his sheets whenever he can’t help but move his hips, which is pretty much all the time.

“ _Es-tu prêt pour moi?_ ” Tomas says.

“What?” Kent mumbles, because honestly, he can barely manage English right now.

“Ah,” Tomas says. “ _Désolé.”_ Kent can’t figure out if he’s chirping him now, but Tomas follows it up with, “You ready for me?” and he knows the answer to that.

“Fuck. Yeah. Come on,” he says. “Come on, please— _No_ , ah, fuck,” he says, because Tomas takes his fingers out.

“Just a second, baby,” Tomas says, and he’s never called Kent that before. Kent swallows against a sudden tidal wave of feelings he can’t figure out. He leans up a little, pushes away the pillow he was lying on, but he doesn’t actually feel capable of holding his head up, so he puts it down on his arms instead.

Tomas runs a hand down Kent’s back again, and then there’s a crinkle of a condom wrapper, and the click of the lube bottle cap, and then he’s taking hold of Kent’s hips.

“You wanna stay like this? Or you wanna turn over, or do something else?” Tomas says. He sounds breathless.

“Like this,” Kent says, because he knows it’ll be easier, feel better, even if he also kind of wants to see Tomas’ face right now.

“Okay,” Tomas says, and then he’s pressing in.

It’s been a long time, and it’s different than fingers. It’s uncomfortable if not outright painful, and for a second Kent almost gets a little panicky, but then Tomas is holding still and pressing kisses to his shoulders and his neck, whispering French endearments into his ear. Kent relaxes a little, realizes he hasn’t breathed in a while, draws in a gasp. “Fuck,” he mumbles. “Just—god, you’re so—”

“Shh,” Tomas says. “It’s okay. Just relax. Let me—ah, let me know when I can…” He trails off, buries his face against Kent’s shoulder, and takes a shuddering breath.

Kent tries to steady his breathing as his body adjusts. Some of his arousal has ebbed away, but it just makes everything feel more intense. Every touch of Tomas’ fingertips on his skin, every minute shift of Tomas’ hips echoes around his mind like thunder.

“More,” he mumbles after a moment, when it feels like he can take more without falling apart at the seams.

“ _Crisse_ , okay,” Tomas says, sliding in a little further. His breath catches. “So good, you feel so good, god _, Kent_.”

Kent whimpers, clutches the sheets in his fingers, isn’t sure if it’s pleasure or pain that he’s feeling. “God,” he whines. “I’m… Tomas, Tomas it’s so much, so much, _god_ —” He breaks off when Tomas bottoms out.

Tomas falls still again, pressing his mouth to Kent’s shoulder. He lets go of Kent’s hip to run his hand from Kent’s shoulder to his wrist, to where his fingers are twisted in the sheets.

They’re just breathing together. Tomas is pressed against him everywhere, pushing him into the bed. Tomas is all around him, is _in_ him. When Kent shifts his hips just a little, his body adjusting, he can hear the hitch in Tomas’ breathing just above him, and the sound sends a flood of desire through him.

“I’m… Can I?” Tomas whispers after a long moment.

“Yeah, do it,” Kent breathes out, and Tomas does. “Oh, oh, nnngh—” Kent moans, and keeps moaning as Tomas pulls out in a long, slow drag that sets Kent’s nerves on fire. After a second, Tomas pushes back in, just as slowly, panting heavily. A moment’s pause, and then he does it again, and again, careful at first and then finding a slow rhythm.

Kent knows he isn’t going to last long. He’s distantly impressed with himself for even lasting until he got Tomas inside him. He thinks if he got a hand on himself—even more so if Tomas got a hand on him—he’d come in two seconds. So he doesn’t. He keeps his hands fisted around the dark fabric of his sheets, keeps his face pressed into them in a half-hearted attempt to disguise how loud he’s being.

Tomas picks up his pace a little, his breathing heavy against Kent’s neck. “So good,” he says into Kent’s skin. He grabs the back of Kent’s thigh, pushes a little so Kent has to lift his hips off the bed.

On his next thrust, fireworks explode behind Kent’s eyes. “ _Ahhh_ ,” Kent groans. “Ahh, fuuuck, fuck.”

“Yeah?” Tomas huffs. He does it again, and again, and he’s all Kent can hear and feel and taste, everything is Tomas, Tomas, Tomas.

“Gonna—Gonna—I’m,” Kent manages to say, and then Tomas thrusts in even harder than before, and Kent feels every muscle in his body seize up as he comes. It’s almost scary how good it feels, how he can’t catch his breath for long seconds. Tomas has slowed his thrusts but is still moving and that just seems to draw it out.

Eventually, he stills when Kent slumps against the bed.

“No,” Kent moans. “No, keep going, please, fuck, please—”

“You sure?” Tomas says breathlessly.

“Yeah, do it, do it,” Kent whines.

Tomas thrusts in again, and Kent sobs with the overstimulation. It’s so much and it’s so good. Tomas changes his angle so he’s not hitting Kent’s prostate anymore, so it’s just the right side of bearable. All Kent has to do is lie there and _feel_ and it’s almost, almost too much, and he wants it to go on forever.

“Can I, ah, can I go faster,” Tomas says, a little while later. Kent nods frantically against the bed.

Tomas speeds up, and it’s four, five thrusts after that when he comes with a low groan, his hips snapping up close against Kent’s ass.

Kent isn’t ever moving again.

Tomas stays inside him, pressed up against his back. After a moment, he lifts his hand and starts tracing slow patterns along Kent’s arm.

“You all right?” he says quietly after a minute or two, when his breathing is mostly back to normal.

“Mm,” Kent mumbles.

“Okay,” Tomas says, amusement in his voice. “I’m gonna clean us up, all right?”

“Mmhmm,” Kent hums.

Tomas is definitely laughing at him now, but Kent doesn’t mind. He sighs a little when Tomas pulls out and rolls off him. There’s sweat cooling on his back and it’s cold now that Tomas is gone.

A moment later, Tomas is back, gently wiping a cloth over Kent’s back and ass and thighs. He nudges at Kent’s side, and Kent reluctantly rolls over. Tomas is hovering over him, looking impossibly fond as he finishes cleaning Kent up and wipes ineffectively at the bedsheets.

“Whatever,” Kent mumbles at him. “I’ll do laundry tomorrow.”

Tomas huffs out a laugh. “Okay.” He disappears again, and the next time he comes back, he convinces Kent to get under the covers with him.

Kent lets Tomas pull him close. They tend to switch up who’s big or little spoon, but Kent not-so-secretly likes it best when he’s got Tomas’ chest warm against his back, Tomas’ arm around his waist.

“You know it’s not even nine yet, right?” Tomas says behind him.

“Just a nap, then,” Kent says.

“Right,” Tomas says. “You’re going to sleep until six in the morning.”

Kent yawns. “Perfect.”

“Weirdo.” Tomas presses a kiss to Kent’s hair, which is probably an even more disastrous mess than usual.

“You don’t have to stay in bed,” Kent mumbles. “You can go watch TV or write or something.”

“Maybe later,” Tomas says. “I like it here.”

Kent buries his smile into his pillow. “Okay.”

“ _Fait de beaux rêves_ ,” Tomas says, and that’s the last thing Kent hears before he drifts off to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "T’es donc ben beau" = You're gorgeous.  
> “Es-tu prêt pour moi?” = Are you ready for me?  
> “Désolé.” = sorry  
> “Fait de beaux rêves,” = sweet dreams. (I think at this point I can probably stop providing the translation for that one, eh?)
> 
> Since this chapter was very Kent-focused, this is probably a good moment to provide you all with the second playlist that goes with this story, which is the one for Tomas. I'm going to add that later today or tomorrow as a new work in this series, so if you've subscribed to the story but not the series, make sure to keep an eye on it! (In the interest of some epilogue-y business, you probably want to subscribe to the series anyway!)
> 
> Last week's comments were great-- I loved hearing all your thoughts and your favorite hockey teams :D I try to respond to all comments so come talk to me!
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: First time therapy and some other first times. This week: Two steps forward, one step back. Also, a baby is born.
> 
> Thanks to C (<3) and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

Parmanteau with a hard hit on Parson. Parson slow to get up.

|

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

A five-minute major penalty was assessed to Parmanteau

|

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2d

Parson is back on the ice for the powerplay!  


**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 14h

Kent Parson will not play tonight’s game, coach says he is expected back next game.

|

 **Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 14h

“Parson’s injury is minor, we just want to be careful” – Coach Severs

  
         -------------

 

 **Tomas [10:34 am]:** How’s your shoulder?

 **Kent [10:35 am]:** not too bad

 **Kent [10:35 am]:** just annoyed im gonna miss the game

 **Kent [10:35 am]:** but i shld be back on the ice in two days

 **Tomas [10:36 am]:** you should come by when I’m done with work so I can kiss you better

 **Kent [10:37 am]:** :)

  
         -------------  


He has his second therapy session when the rest of the guys are at practice, because he had to miss it anyway what with his sore shoulder.

“How do you feel about missing a game?” Khadija says.

He shrugs, which sends a twinge through his shoulder muscles. “It sucks,” he says. “Sorry. I mean, I don’t like it.”

Khadija smiles at him. “You can use whichever words you like,” she says.

“Okay, well, it sucks,” he says. “I like hockey.”

“Yeah?” she says.

The next time he glances at the clock, it’s forty-five minutes later and he’s in the middle of explaining what he likes about coaching youth teams. “Shit, aren’t we supposed to talk about, like, my issues and stuff?” he says.

“I think I might need to know how you feel about hockey if I want to understand how you feel about anything else,” Khadija says, which is probably not wrong.

  
         -------------

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3h

Final score: Aces 4, Capitals 1!

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 3h

Kent Parson celebrates his return after a one-game absence with a goal and two assists!

 

 **Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 3h

“It was good to get back on the ice” -@kvparson90

  
         -------------

 

“Hey,” Tomas says. He closes the door behind Kent and pulls him closer for a kiss. It’s been a long day, but Kent is here now, and that makes things better.

Kent follows him to the living room. “How’s life?” he asks.

“Yeah, fine,” Tomas says. “Sorry, I was going to have dinner ready, but I’m exhausted. I’ll get started on it in a minute.” He scrubs a hand over his face.

Kent narrows his eyes, suddenly much more focused on Tomas. “What’s up?” he asks. His tone is light, but his gaze is intense, attentive.

“It’s nothing big,” Tomas says, but Kent pushes him to the couch anyway. He settles in beside Tomas and pulls him close. Tomas lets himself relax into Kent’s embrace.

“Tell me,” Kent says.

Tomas sighs. “I just had a long day. Last minute changes to what I was supposed to be writing, and I messed up some statistics and people were annoyed. And the weather is fucking ridiculous. It’s not even _warm_ , technically, but it’s December. _Ce temps chaud, c’est_ fucking bullshit.”

Kent chuckles. “I know,” he says. “Hey, it’s almost Christmas. You’ll be in Montreal in two weeks, and then you can freeze to death as much as you want.” Tomas pokes him in the side, but Kent ignores it and presses a kiss to his temple. It’s nice. “And that sucks about work.”

“It’s fine, seriously,” Tomas says. “I’ll get over it, I’m just in a mood.”

“Okay,” Kent says. He sneaks his hand into Tomas’ pocket to pull out his phone and hand it to him. “Here, you go do some Twitter and I’ll make dinner, and then we can watch _Hell’s Kitchen_.”

Tomas snorts out a laugh as Kent gets up. “Did you just say _do some Twitter_?”

Kent smirks at him. “Instagram is better,” he sing-songs off-key.

They’ve had this debate before, so Tomas just rolls his eyes. “There’s zucchini in the fridge and there’s pasta,” he says. He opens his Twitter app, because Kent’s plan honestly does sound pretty good.

“Cool, I’ll figure it out,” Kent says.

Tomas smiles at him. “Thanks,” Tomas says.

“Anytime,” Kent says. He smiles back, warmth in his eyes, and leaves Tomas to his Twitter feed.

  
         -------------

 

“Shoots, and he scores!” Scotty yells. He punches the air with his Xbox controller. “What a beauty!”

Kimmy holds up his hand for a high five. “Take that, losers!”

Swoops groans. “Kent, I am so sorry.”

“God, man, you should be,” Kent says, glaring at him. “This is a fucking tragedy. It’s been like two minutes and we’re behind. And I won just now with Tower, so it’s definitely your fault that we’re losing.”

“Thanks, that helps,” Swoops says drily.

Tower laughs from where he’s waiting out this match. “Don’t worry, man, we can’t all be FIFA champions,” he says.

“Yeah, all right, all right,” Swoops says. “You guys know we’re only down by one, right? We can still win this.”

“That’s the spirit,” Scotty says with a grin. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

“Anyone want another drink?” Tower asks, as the screen of Scotty’s TV switches from replays of the goal to where Kent and Swoops’ team is ready to kick off again.

There’s a chorus of affirmations and Tower disappears to the kitchen.

“Don’t fuck me on this, Swoops,” Kent says.

“I never play this game!” Swoops protests.

“And whose fault is that?” Kent says.

“Fine, fine, just… go,” Swoops says, laughing. “I’ll do my best and I apologize in advance.”

Tower isn’t even back with their drinks yet by the time one of Swoops’ players gives up the ball near the goal. Kimmy scores and he and Scotty erupt in cheers again.

Swoops throws his hands up in frustration. “Oh my god, I’m the worst.”

“Defending’s the hardest part,” Kent says, patting him on the back. “It’s fine. Just. Try and actually get some passes forward, or something. I know you know how that works; it’s a thing in hockey too.”

Swoops shoots him a dirty look. “Thanks, Kent, very helpful.”

They kick off again, and one of Swoops’ players ends up with the ball in midfield.

“Through ball, come on, press y,” Kent yells, and somehow Swoops manages to mash the right buttons to get the ball to one of their forwards.

“Come on, get it in, get it in,” Swoops urges as Kent moves the ball forward. But one of the defenders is approaching, and when Kent attempts the shot, it gets diverted away from the goal. Scotty and Kimmy let out sighs of relief.

“Nice pass, though,” Kent says.

“Not bad, huh?” Swoops grins at him.

“What did I miss?” Tower asks, coming back in with drinks.

“Unfortunately, nothing good,” Swoops says.

After they lose 5-0, they switch teams so Scotty sits one out and Kimmy is paired up with Swoops. Tower and Kent win that one, and then Scotty and Tower win against Kimmy and Swoops, after which Swoops begs off on account of the fact that he’s clearly terrible.

“Practice makes perfect, man,” Tower says. “This just means you should be playing more, not less.”

“Nah, I think he’s just getting old,” Scotty says, grinning. “Bad for your reaction time, and all that.”

“Hey, there’s no need for that,” Swoops says.

“You’re about to be a dad and everything,” Scotty points out.

“All right, kid, that’s enough. Just play the next one without me,” Swoops says with a chuckle.

Kent gets paired off with Scotty, and they drag out a narrow win. “Good teamwork,” Kent says, holding his hand out for a fist bump. “Let’s take that to the ice.”

Scotty laughs. “Sure, Cap. You realize this is a night off, right?”

Kent smirks. “Never a night off. This is essential team bonding.”

“Well, if you could replicate that win on the ice, that would sure be helpful,” Tower says.

“Okay, okay, it is actually a night off though,” Scotty cuts in. “I don’t really want to think about how badly we need a win.”

“It’s not that bad anyway,” Kimmy says. “So we’ve lost three in a row. We’re still fifth. It’s only a couple points to get back in a playoffs spot, no matter what that faggot keeps saying in his stupid articles.”

Kent feels his stomach twist and his hands go clammy. Before he can even think about how to respond, Swoops says, “What did you just say?” His voice is sharp.

“You know, that guy Nadeau or whatever,” Kimmy says, willfully ignoring the expression on Swoops’ face. “Saw him tweet out one of his articles this morning where he’s all, _ooh, the Aces aren’t in a playoffs spot, Newton hasn’t been the same since his injury, they’re never gonna make it_.” He pitches his voice high to imitate Tomas, even though Tomas’ voice is deeper than his. “Fucking cocksucker, what does he know? I thought he’s supposed to be working for us.”

Kent can’t breathe. Swoops looks livid, and he’s about to launch into a no doubt formidable tirade, when Kent hears himself say, “I gotta go.”

“What?” Kimmy says.

“Yeah, I gotta—I gotta go, I just remembered I need to—” He can’t think of anything, his mind is blank, his hands are shaking, he’s in so much trouble if he can’t think of why—

“Oh shit, yeah, didn’t you say your agent was going to call about that endorsement?” Swoops says. “Was that today?”

Thank fuck for Swoops. “Right, so I should—yeah. You, uh, you still want a ride?” he says. He just needs to keep breathing until he’s out of this fucking house, no matter that it feels like the walls are closing in on him.

“Yeah, might as well, Sanne doesn’t want me to be gone too long anyway now that it could be any moment,” Swoops says.

“Okay?” Kimmy says. He and Scotty and Tower all look surprised, because despite Swoops’ excuse this must still be fucking weird.

Kent ducks out of the room, doesn’t check whether Swoops is following him. But Swoops catches up when Kent reaches his car and steers him around to the passenger side. Kent lets him, because he just needs to sit and practice the breathing exercises he went over with Khadija, and he can trust Swoops with Carmen. He all but falls into the passenger seat and doubles over, trying to get his breathing under control.

Swoops’ hand is between his shoulder blades, but he shakes it off. “No,” he wheezes. “Drive, I don’t want them to see—”

“Yeah, okay,” Swoops says.

He maybe loses a bit of time while he’s trying to feel less light-headed. When he next glances out of the window they’re parked on some quiet street that isn’t Scotty’s.

“Can I—” Swoops says, reaching out a hand.

“Yeah, whatever,” Kent gasps, and he’s got space in his head to feel embarrassed now about how he must look, which probably means he’s past the worst.

Swoops squeezes his shoulder and then he just waits until Kent can finally take a deep breath, hold it, and let it go slowly.

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

“Yeah,” Swoops says, his voice rough. “You okay?”

Kent shrugs. “Fuck,” he repeats. “I’m not—do you think—we ran out, do you think they…”

“They’re idiots,” Swoops says. It’s almost a growl. “They have no idea what just happened, and they’ll just chalk it up to us being weird. It’s fine.”

“’Kay,” Kent says, even though he knows he’s going to be out of his mind over this for the next couple of days, imagining all the scenarios in which Kimmy or Scotty or Tower figures out why he was suddenly in such a hurry to leave. It might be a step in the right direction that he can predict this now. It still sucks.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Kent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Swoops says. It’s quiet for a moment. “I’m gonna drive you home.”

“No, I can—You can drive to yours and I’ll drive home so you won’t have to—”

“Kent,” Swoops says. “I’m gonna drive you home.”

He slumps into his seat. “Okay.”

  
         -------------

 

It’s nice how Khadija just listens quietly while he describes what happened at Scotty’s place. She asks a couple of questions and she makes him breathe slowly when he can feel the panic coming back. It doesn’t feel as embarrassing as it could.

“Do you know when you first started having these panic attacks? Is it recent, or something you’ve been dealing with for a while?” she asks.

 _Panic attacks_ sounds like something that happens to other people. He’s always just thought of it as that fucked-up hyperventilate-y thing that he does sometimes.

“I don’t know. I guess—I mean, I thought it was gone,” he says. “But I—It happened a couple times in the Q, I think, and then—”

“The Q?” she asks.

“Oh. Junior hockey. So when I was, like, seventeen or eighteen. And then it happened more right after I got drafted,” he says. “But then it went away, so… I don’t know. I figured I got over it.”

Khadija nods and scribbles something down on her notepad. Kent takes a sip of water and waits for her next question.

  
         -------------

 

Kent is asleep, tucked under Tomas’ arm, when the phone starts ringing. It’s warm and comfortable and he wants to keep sleeping, but he groggily reaches out for his phone and squints into the brightness when he turns it over. It’s 3:57 am and the screen says _Swoops_.

Tomas grumbles and rolls over. He mumbles something into his pillow.

“Hey,” Kent says, putting the phone to his ear.

“Hey, sorry, I know it’s, like, the middle of the night,” Swoops says.

“What’s up,” Kent says.

“Sanne told me to go outside and talk to you until I calm down enough to be actually helpful,” Swoops says.

Kent blinks into the darkness and puts two and two together. “Baby on the way?” he says, sitting up a little.

“Yeah, we just got to the hospital,” Swoops says.

“I thought she wanted to do a home birth,” Kent says.

“Yeah,” Swoops says. He’s talking about twice as fast as normal. “We were going to do that, but then the baby pooped, which happens sometimes and it’s fine, but it means it needs to be a hospital birth. I’m just a little thrown off, I guess.”

“Okay,” Kent says. He rubs at his eyes. “Okay, uh, well. It’s gonna be fine, you know? The hospital thing is just a precaution, right?”

“Yeah,” Swoops says. Kent hears him let out a long sigh, his breath rustling through the phone connection. “Yeah, it’ll be fine.”

“Exactly,” Kent says. “Also, you need to calm the fuck down and actually go help your wife.”

“Right,” Swoops says. “Right.”

“Let out a sigh,” Kent says.

“What?”

“A sigh. Like you did just now. Long breath, let it out.”

Swoops does, and then he does it again. “Huh.”

“Helps, right?” Kent says. “’s what my therapist says. Okay. You feel better?”

“Yeah,” Swoops says.

“Good,” Kent says. “Go help Sanne out.”

“Okay,” Swoops says. “I’ll call you later. After.”

“Good luck,” Kent says.

The line goes dead, and Kent stares pensively at the screen for a moment. It’s a really weird idea that Swoops is becoming a dad right now. He wonders if he should’ve said or done anything more, but he’s pretty sure Swoops is going to be fine.

Kent puts his phone down on the bedside table and slides back under the covers, shivering a bit because sitting up had been chilly. Tomas pulls him closer, and Kent lets out a content sigh, pressing his face against Tomas’ shoulder.

Tomas kisses his hair. “ _Il va bien?”_ he asks.

“ _Ouais,”_ Kent says. “ _He’s just nervous. They’ll be fine.”_

“Mm,” Tomas mumbles.

“ _Go back to sleep_ ,” Kent says. He’s not sure when Tomas actually came to bed. They’d watched TV together earlier; then there had been making out, and they’d moved to the bedroom. After, when Kent was warm and sated and sleepy, they’d cuddled until Kent was almost asleep, and then Tomas had said, “I know you want to sleep, but it’s way too early, so I’m going to finish my blog post, if that’s alright.” Kent had kissed him, and Tomas had wandered back to the living room but left the bedroom door open, and Kent had fallen asleep to the far away sound of his typing.

The point is, it’s the middle of the night. Kent slides his hand under Tomas’ shirt and around his waist. Tomas hums quietly, already mostly asleep again. Kent’s still thinking about Swoops, but it doesn’t take him long to fall back asleep either.

  
         -------------

 

Kent wakes just after 6. He keeps checking his phone while he’s on his run, even though it might be hours before he hears from Swoops again.

He drags Tomas out of bed and makes them both breakfast. They eat quietly, side by side at the breakfast bar. Kent takes longer than he should. He feels kind of nauseous and he knows it’s because he’s worried about someone seeing Tomas when he’s leaving.

“Deep breaths,” he mumbles to himself when Tomas has gone to take a shower. It’s been like this the last couple of times Tomas stayed over, but he hasn’t decided whether or not to mention it. Technically, Tomas knows that this freaks him out, because he mentioned it the day after that awful date.

“Are you all right?” Tomas asks, buttoning up his shirt as he steps back into the living room. He leans against the end of the breakfast bar, beside where Kent is still on his barstool. Kent hadn’t realized for how long he’d zoned out.

“Yeah,” Kent says. Tomas nods, but he’s still frowning, a little worried crease in his forehead. Kent remembers how Tomas looked at the restaurant and how he looked the day after, when Kent had to confess everything he’d been hiding without even knowing it himself. He sighs. “Not really. It’s fine.”

Tomas’ expression shifts to something sympathetic. “Can I do anything?”

“No,” Kent says. “It’s just…” He makes an effort to relax his fingers, which have clenched into fists without his permission. “You know.” He waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the door. “You having to leave. And stuff.”

Tomas’ expression shifts to realization, so maybe he forgot what Kent said a couple weeks back. Either that, or he hadn’t understood how much it fucked Kent up. That makes sense, because it’s not like Kent’s paranoia is a reasonable response to the fact that Tomas is going to spend two minutes in an elevator that someone else might also get on.

“Do you want a hug?” Tomas says, after a couple of seconds of silence.

“Yes,” Kent says. He stands up and pulls Tomas close. The world feels a little safer like this, even though he knows he’s going to have to let go, and Tomas is still going to have to leave his apartment.

 

         -------------  


Swoops calls right when Kent steps out of the restaurant where he had lunch with a couple of teammates. “Hey,” Kent says. “I thought you’d never call.” It’d been a weird practice, because everyone knew why Swoops wasn’t there, and everyone had been waiting to hear from him.

“Ha, yeah,” Swoops says. “So, I’m a dad.”

Kent fishes in his pocket for his car keys, a smile spreading on his face. “Congratulations, man. Tell me more,” he says.

“She’s so amazing,” Swoops says. “God, I have a daughter. I can’t believe it. We—her name’s Hailey. And she’s doing great, and Sanne is too. I didn’t think I could be this exhausted and this happy at once.”

“That’s awesome,” Kent says. He slides behind the wheel of Carmen, but doesn’t start her yet. “What’s she look like?”

“I don’t know, she’s—her eyes are really blue,” Swoops says. “She’s only been here for an hour, but I love her so much, Kent, I can’t even…”

Kent grins at the parking lot in front of him. “You’re such a sap, man.”

“Shut up,” Swoops says. “You wanna come see her? You can’t see her and not love her, I think.”

“That might be a dad thing,” Kent says. “What hospital are you guys at?”

“The UMC. I’ll text you the room number. You can stop by whenever.”

Half an hour later, Kent is looking down at a tiny baby in a hospital crib. Hailey has her eyes squeezed shut, fast asleep. She’s wearing a green hat and a striped onesie. Kent runs a careful finger over her cheek. Her skin feels soft against the pad of his finger. “She’s really cute,” he tells Swoops. Swoops has bags under his eyes—Kent has just learned he hasn’t slept at all, because Sanne’s labor started at ten last night—but he looks proud and happy.

“She’s amazing,” Swoops says.

Sanne is sitting up in bed, looking as exhausted as Swoops and as happy. Kent touches Hailey’s tiny fingers for a moment and then steps back and perches on the edge of Sanne’s bed. “So do I, like, ask about the delivery or something, or is that impolite?” he asks.

Swoops laughs at him, settling in the chair between Sanne and Hailey. “Do you actually want to hear about the delivery?” he says.

Kent doesn’t know anything about labor except that it’s supposed to be really painful and possibly kind of gross. “Maybe?” he says.

Sanne shakes her head at the both of them. “It went all right, I think,” she says. “It was just over fourteen hours, which is a lot shorter than my mother has been telling me it could be. It’s just a pity we had to go to the hospital, but they were great here. And Hailey is fine, that’s the most important.”

“That’s good,” Kent says. “Are your parents coming?”

“Mine are flying over this afternoon,” Swoops says.

“My parents are coming later this week,” Sanne says. “They had to book flights in advance, obviously, so they aimed for a bit after the due date. But she decided to be right on time.” Sanne glances over at the little crib with a fond smile.

Kent follows her gaze. Hailey is just stirring a bit, her fingers stretching before she settles back down. It’s very adorable.

Sanne’s best friend arrives then, so he doesn’t stick around long—Swoops and Sanne both look like they could use a bit of peace and quiet with their newborn before their parents descend on them. He leans over Hailey’s crib one more time.

“Can I take a picture?” he asks, because she’s adorable and he wants to show Tomas. He’s not usually that interested in babies, but this is _Swoops’_ kid, and there’s something disarming about such a tiny human.

“Yeah, sure, just don’t tweet it,” Swoops says. “Put it in the group chat, though, I haven’t had time yet.”

Kent pulls out his phone and takes a couple of pictures, and then he hugs Swoops and Sanne goodbye—carefully, in Sanne’s case, because she did just put a person on the planet and it seems like that might make her pretty sore.

“Thanks,” Swoops says. “For coming. And for talking last night.”

“No problem,” Kent says.

 

         -------------  


**Kent [2:14 pm]:** [PHOTO]

 **Tomas [2:17 pm]:** She’s very cute

 **Tomas [2:18 pm]:** So everything went okay?

 **Kent [2:18 pm]:** yeah

 **Kent [2:18 pm]:** swoops is totally in love with her

 **Kent [2:19 pm]:** makes sense, its a cute bby

 

         -------------  


**Kent [2:19 pm]:** new honorary Aces teammate

 **Kent [2:19 pm]:** [PHOTO]

 **Tower [2:20 pm]:** aw

 **Beck [2:21 pm]:** That’s cute

 **Tanner [2:24 pm]:** neat

 **Tanner [2:24 pm]:** they doing ok?

 **Kent [2:24 pm]:** yeah theyre all fine

 **Maestro [2:25 pm]:** Cute baby

 **Maestro [2:25 pm]:** We need to get her an Aces hat ASAP tho

 

         -------------  


**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @SwoopThereItIs · 3h

Today, December 20th at 11:51 am, our daughter Hailey Johanna was born. We’re beyond delighted to welcome her into this world!

[PHOTO]

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 2h

A warm welcome to Hailey and congratulations to @SwoopThereItIs and @Mrsswoops!

 

         -------------

 

Tomas is stretched out lengthwise on Kent’s couch, his back against the armrest, his laptop on his lap, his feet resting comfortably on Kent’s knees. Frothy Christmas music is playing on a low volume over the living room sound system.

Tomas lets out a low groan and stretches his arms up over his head. A kink in his shoulder lets out a satisfying crack. “Ugh,” he moans.

On the other side of the couch, Kent looks up from his phone and rubs Tomas’ calf affectionately. “Writing headache?” 

“No, it’s fine.” Tomas pinches the bridge of his nose, sending his glasses up into his hair. “It’s just that all of my sentences are exactly the same and I have never had an original thought in my life, and no one reads these stupid game previews anyway, because they’re out of date like five hours after I post them, so I’m just wasting my life shouting into the void when I could have become a doctor or something.”

Kent laughs. Gently, he leans over and pries Tomas’ laptop from out of his grip. “Okay, that’s enough existential crisis for one day. I’m cutting you off; you need a break.”

Tomas is going to object when Kent carefully folds Tomas’ computer shut and sets it on the coffee table. But honestly, Tomas really can’t stand the sight of his stupid half-empty word document at the moment, so he’s willing to let it go.

“Want a distraction?” Kent asks. He slips his own phone into his back pocket and starts to crawl his way up Tomas’ torso.

Tomas smiles. “What did you have in mind?”

Whatever Kent might have suggested, they’re interrupted by the sound of Tomas’ phone ringing. It skitters across the coffee table, vibrating precariously close to the edge. With Kent poised over him, his eyes still sparkling with intent, Tomas is sorely tempted to ignore whoever it is.

“If it’s Catrina with another last-minute deadline, I swear to god I’m quitting.”

Kent laughs and leans over to check Tomas’ phone. “It’s Émilie,” he says, levering himself up and off the coach, allowing Tomas to sit up. He pecks Tomas on the lips and then heads off for the kitchen. “To be continued.”

Tomas watches his ass for a second as he walks away, then reaches over and answers his phone.

“Hey Em.”

“Yo yo. I need you to save me. If I have to spend another minute listen to my uncle mansplaining goalie interference to me, I will actually murder someone. Him, probably. And it’s Christmas, I feel like that might ruin the whole vibe.”

Tomas smiles. “Technically it’s the 20th. This is what you get for going home so early.”

“I know it. Come save me! When are you getting into town?”

“Not until the day after tomorrow. Try not to kill any of your family members in the meantime.”

“I can’t promise anything.” Émilie sighs. It’s nice to hear her voice, they’ve been missing each other’s calls on and off for the last couple weeks. It’s been way too long since they caught up. Tomas thinks this might be his fault, actually. He’s owed her a call for a couple days. “Hey,” Émilie continues after a moment, “are you bringing Kent home with you when you come back? Are you guys at the ‘bring the boy to meet the parents’ stage yet?”

A cold fist clenches at Tomas’ heart. He glances over the back of the couch, but there’s no sign of Kent. He must have gone off to his room, clearly wanting to give Tomas a bit of privacy. “Not yet,” Tomas says. And why is he keeping his voice down? Kent knows Émilie knows, it shouldn’t matter. But talking about Kent, about their relationship, to someone else while Kent is nearby… Tomas can’t imagine it would do Kent’s anxiety any good. “We’re, uh, not at that stage yet.”

Émilie sounds disappointed when she replies, “Oh, well, okay. I mean, I guess it would be a big step.”

Tomas wants to object, to explain. But how can he tell Émilie that even telling Tomas’ parents would be way too much too soon for Kent? He couldn’t explain without explaining everything, and those aren’t Tomas’ secrets to tell. “Yeah, I uh. I dunno, I might mention something about it to my parents. That I’m dating, you know? But I probably won’t tell them who.”

“Ha, yeah, probably for the best if you guys aren’t that serious. Knowing your parents, they’d go out and buy Parser sweaters the second they found out. Might be awkward if it’s just casual, eh?”

Tomas forces a chuckle, his throat suddenly dry. Why does he feel like he’s lying to his best friend?

“Shame though!” Émilie continues. “I would have liked to meet this guy outside a damn press scrum at some point. Maybe one day, if you guys stay together.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “Maybe.”

 

         -------------  


“What would you say your goal is?” Khadija asks.

Kent shrugs. “I don’t know. I just wanna stop feeling so shitty all the time.”

“Okay,” she says. “What would that mean in the situation you just described?”

He traces circles on the arm of his chair. Therapy feels like pulling teeth today. He’s tired. They lost to the Lightning last night; practice was shit this morning. Telling Khadija about his fears feels shameful right now. He wants to go home and crawl into bed and watch crappy TV and forget that Tomas left last night to go to Montreal for Christmas. “I guess not feeling like I’m going to throw up in the morning whenever Tomas stays over would be nice.”

“Okay,” Khadija says again. “I think it would be a good idea to try to look at your thought patterns in situations like those.” She leans over and picks up a few sheets of paper from her desk. “I have a worksheet I think you should fill out at home, when something like this happens again.”

 

         -------------  


**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 4h

Happy Holidays! The Aces will be back in 3 days, but first we’re celebrating with our families!

 

         -------------  


**Kent [6:38 am]:** merry xmas xx

 **Tomas [8:02 am]:** Joyeux Noël, mon minou

 **Kent [8:15 am]:** <3

 **Kent [8:15 am]:** ill call u in a bit

 **Kent [8:16 am]:** when ur actually awake & not jst pretending ur used to ur time zone already

 

         -------------

 

 **Ashley Parson** @TheAshParson · 10m

Spending Christmas with my brother & his demon cat

[PHOTO]

|

 **Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 9m

take that back shes an angel

|

 **Ashley Parson** @TheAshParson · 8m

kit purrson is an angel

|

 **Ashley Parson** @TheAshParson · 5m

Everyone knows you stole my phone and wrote that, Kent.

 

         -------------

 

Kent is curled up in his chair in Khadija’s office. She’s looking at him, and he’s looking away, because he’s crying, and it’s embarrassing, and it sucks. Khadija has already offered him the box of tissues. He wipes at his eyes until they’re mostly dry.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Khadija says.

He shrugs. It’s quiet for a little while.

“What’s got you upset?” Khadija asks. “You were telling me that Tomas got back from Montreal.”

Kent shrugs again. Khadija lets the silence hang. It’s a thing she does sometimes, and Kent is pretty sure it’s some kind of therapist trick, but he still can’t stop himself from talking eventually. “I was going to pick him up at the airport,” he says.

“Mm,” Khadija says.

Kent digs his fingers into the arm of his chair. “He asked if I was sure,” he says. “Texted me, I mean. ’Cause it was public. And I said yeah, it would be fine. Except then I had to actually go do it, and I—” He bites the inside of his cheek, hard enough that he can taste blood.

“Deep breath,” Khadija instructs. “Let it out on a sigh.”

He sighs, and it helps, but only a little. “I had—Uh, I panicked, I guess, so I couldn’t go—I guess I had, uh, a panic attack, and then I—” He shakes his head. “I had to text him and say I couldn’t come. And he’s…”

“He’s what?” she asks after a moment.

“I don’t know,” Kent says miserably. “He said it was fine, but I can’t—he must’ve been disappointed, and if I can’t even pick him up from the fucking airport—I can’t give him what he wants.”

“Have you asked him what he wants?” Khadija says.

He shrugs. “I guess not, but…” He trails off.

“Well, that might be something you could do,” she says. “Either way, we can spend some time at our next appointment discussing how to deal with those kinds of expectations. For now, I think we should talk about your panic attack. Did you fill out one of the worksheets?”

Kent shakes his head. The worksheets are in a little stack at the bottom of a drawer at home. He’s sort of okay with being in therapy, but he can’t really deal with the idea of having therapy homework. He’d put the papers away as soon as he got home and ignored their existence.

“That’s all right,” Khadija says. “It’s helpful to fill them out right after something happens, but we can still talk about it regardless. Can you tell me…”

 

         -------------

 

When he gets home, Kent is tired—but still less exhausted than yesterday, when he’d had that panic attack. The days between Christmas and New Year are blessedly low on PR events, so he has a nap and plays with Kit until Tomas comes over. They order food and settle on the couch for a Schooners-Canucks game.

“You look tired,” Tomas says during first intermission.

“Oh, thanks,” Kent says, eyebrow raised.

Tomas chuckles. “Don’t worry, you’re still handsome.”

Kent leans sideways to put his head on Tomas’ shoulder. “Long practice. Therapy,” he says.

“Mm.” Tomas doesn’t say anything else. Maybe he’s waiting for Kent to say more—did he learn that from Khadija somehow? It’s not as effective with commercials playing on mute to distract them, but the silence still grows a little stilted after a while.

Eventually, Kent says. “Hey, about yesterday.”

He doesn’t say anything else, so it’s silent again for long seconds until Tomas says, “Yeah?”

“Uh,” Kent says. He breathes out slowly. When he finally finds some words, what comes out is, “I’m worried that I can’t do normal shit like pick my boyfriend up from the airport, or go on dates, or other stuff, and that you’ll eventually get sick of it and leave me.” That’s more than he meant to say, and he’s almost inclined to take it back right away.

Tomas squeezes Kent’s fingers. It feels reassuring. “Is that just about yesterday?”

“I guess not,” Kent says, because today in therapy isn’t the first time he’s thought about it.

“All right,” Tomas says. He gestures at the TV. “Mind if I turn that off?”

Kent shrugs, so Tomas reaches for the remote. When the flashing images have disappeared, he sits up a little, nudging Kent until Kent sits up too and they can see each other’s faces. Tomas looks pensive, but his lips quirk up in a fond little smile when his eyes meet Kent’s.

“Okay, _mon minou_ ,” he says. “Let’s talk about it.”

 

         -------------  


**Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 7m

We’re back in a wildcard spot!

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 4m

I’m going to frame that OT goal and hang it on my wall

 

         -------------  


“Swoops had a baby party on Saturday,” Kent says.

“How was it?” Khadija asks.

“Yeah, it was fun,” Kent says. “Most of the team was there. A couple of ‘em had seen Hailey already, but I guess Swoops and Sanne didn’t want to have visitors twenty times a day, so they did one thing for the whole team to meet her.” He hesitates, tracing a circle around his kneecap. The knee is beginning to bother him. He’s ready for bye week, after their next roadie. “It made me feel kind of weird,” he says.

“The party?” Khadija asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Because it was—because I’ve been…” He shrugs. “I’ve been, uh, nervous. To be around the guys. I didn’t really want to go to the party. But I’m the captain, obviously, and Swoops is my best friend. So I went, and it was fun, and now I feel weird. It’s stupid.”

“Is it?" she asks.

“Shouldn’t I be happy that it was fun?” he says. “And that nobody said anything fucked up, and I didn’t have—I didn’t freak out or anything.” He still can’t call those things panic attacks, even though Khadija calls them that, and it’s fine when she says it. “That’s good, so I should feel good. Instead I just feel like I was making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Do you think that’s what you’re doing?” she asks.

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. I’ve been—I’ve been saying maybe I don’t want to be on this team, but maybe I just need to… I don’t know. Get over it, or something, ‘cause usually nothing happens even though I’m worried about it. Like, isn’t that why I’m here? Because I, I don’t know. I overreact and get worried about stuff that won’t really happen.”

Khadija looks thoughtful. “We’ve talked about anxiety you’ve experienced about being outed,” she says. “And part of that is about letting go of worrisome thoughts about things that aren’t likely to happen. That doesn’t mean there can’t simultaneously be real homophobia that affects you.”

Kent lets out a slow breath. “Well, how the hell am I supposed to tell the difference?”

 

         -------------  


Tomas calls while Kent is getting dressed for a meeting with Michelle and one of the companies he has an endorsement deal with.  

“Hey,” Kent says, squeezing the phone between his ear and shoulder. 

“Hey,” Tomas says.  

“What’s up?” he asks, because Tomas doesn’t call all that often.

“Nothing, really,” Tomas says. He switches to French. “ _I’m just in a shitty mood. Wanted to hear your voice.”_  

 _“What’s going on?”_ Kent asks. He puts the phone on speaker for a second to fix his tie. The screen says 3:44. He’s got a couple of minutes. 

 _“Nothing,”_ Tomas says again.  _“I’m always like this right after Christmas.”_  

 _“You miss your family?”_ Kent guesses. He’s always sad to see Ashley go when she visits, and in the years she’s visited their mom instead, Christmas has felt pretty lonely sometimes.  

 _“Yeah, a bit, I guess,”_ Tomas says. “ _I probably won’t see them again until after the playoffs, and I’m used to that, but… I don’t know, not today, I guess. It was a long day at work—or I guess it wasn’t, because I’m home before four, but I had a bunch of meetings and yesterday was_   _long, what with the game. And I forgot that I was out of coffee, so I didn't have any this morning and the only option near work is Starbucks… Then people were whining about my latest blog post on Twitter, so... None of it is really that big a deal. It’s just the January blues, really.”_  

Kent winces sympathetically. “ _That sucks. Is the sun helping, or does that just make it worse?”_

Tomas huffs out a laugh.  _“I’m not sure. I know when I lived up north I’d complain about how early the sun set. So I suppose the extra light is nice, but it just makes me miss seasons.”_

 _“Yeah, that makes sense,”_ Kent says. He puts his suit jacket on and checks his hair in the mirror. It’s a mess, as usual. He switches his phone to the other side so he can make an attempt at combing it, not that that will help much. “ _What was your blog post about? I didn’t realize you’d published one last night, ‘cause it was a game day, so I haven’t read it yet._ ”

 _“Possible trades before the deadline,”_  Tomas says.

Kent chuckles.  _“Did you suggest trading Carey Price?”_

_“You’d think I did, judging by how Twitter came at me.”_

_“Twitter is a hellscape,”_ Kent says. He grabs his car keys and tries to remember if he needed to bring anything else. Usually, Michelle’s got everything covered. “ _I’m telling you, Instagram is where it’s at.”_

 _“Yeah, yeah,”_ Tomas says. He switches back to English, which suggests he’s feeling at least a bit better. “What are you up to?”

“Got a meeting with Easton in a minute,” Kent says. He glances at the clock on the oven. “I should be heading out, actually—gonna lose signal in the elevator but I can call you back once I’m in the car.”

He can hear Tomas’ smile in his voice. “No, it’s fine. I know you want to blast Britney while you’re driving.”

“That sounded like a chirp, but I must be wrong about that because Britney’s music isn’t something to make fun of.” Tomas is laughing outright now, and Kent is really glad nobody is here to see his dopey smile.

“If you say so,” Tomas says, still chuckling. “Go have your meeting. I’m gonna catch the Habs game.”

“Have fun,” Kent says.

The line goes dead, and Kent spends a couple of seconds just staring at the phone screen, which still shows Tomas’ picture. He should really be in his car already, but he can spare another thirty seconds.

 **Kent [3:53 pm]:** [PHOTO]

 **Kent [3:53 pm]:** in case u wanted t see my face as well as hear my voice

 **Tomas [3:54 pm]:** Damnnn

 **Tomas [3:54 pm]:** Have I told you how unfair it is that you look this good in a suit

 **Kent [3:55 pm]:** <3

 

         ------------- 

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces ∙ 1d

Bye week is over, hockey is back! The guys are heading out on a 4-game roadie

[PHOTO]

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces ∙ 1d

First up we’re visiting Florida. We’ll see how that pans out…

|

 **Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 ∙ 1d

Oh god was that a panthers pun

 

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau ∙ 1d

Game recap: [atnhl.com/78GOeivp9](http://atnhl.com/78GOeivp9)

 

         -------------   
 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces ∙ 6h

In the second half of our back-to-back, we take on the Lightning tonight!

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces ∙ 1h

“Obviously we would’ve liked to win this one too. A point is a point, but you work for two points, not one. We had two big opportunities in overtime and it’s a shame we let the game get away from us right at the end.” -@kvparson90

 

         -------------   
 

“I’m tired,” Kent says.

“How come?” Khadija asks. Her voice is a little tinny through Kent’s headphones. He tries to schedule most of their appointments around his roadies, but it doesn’t always work. He’s away for six days this time and Khadija’s schedule is pretty full. So he’s in his hotel room now, cross-legged on the bed with his laptop in front of him and the door firmly locked.

“I don’t know,” he says. “A lot of hockey, I guess. Road back-to-backs are pretty brutal.” It’s true, but it’s probably not the whole story, so he adds, “And I’ve been feeling kinda shitty.”

“Yeah?” Khadija says.

He sighs. Even over video, her ‘wait in silence until Kent speaks’ trick works, so it’s not long before he says, “Yeah, uh, because… We’re all at this hotel, obviously, so I just—The team is here all the time, and I feel…” He fiddles with the sheets between his fingers. “Unsafe, I guess. And Tomas is here too, but we can’t—I’ve gone to his room before, on other roadies, like before we were dating we’d just hang out and watch TV, and then once we were dating… Yeah. But I don’t—It doesn’t feel safe now, because last time Maestro noticed that I was gone, and obviously he just thought I was fucking some girl I’d picked up, but I’m just—” He realizes his breathing is speeding up and focuses on letting it out slowly. He almost threw up this morning before he even had breakfast, and he doesn’t want to add a full-blown panic attack to that now. “I don’t know if I should, like, try to push through it or something. Text Tomas and invite him over. But—” But there are at least five teammates with rooms near his, and just the idea that one of them might see Tomas on this floor makes his breathing pick up again.

“Deep breaths,” Khadija reminds him. She waits until he feels slightly more settled in his skin and continues, “I think you should give yourself permission to save that step for later. You don’t need to be able to do everything at once. Why don’t we go over some of the thoughts you’ve been having and look at some strategies to counter them?”

 

         ------------- 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces ∙ 3h

Final score: Aces 4, Predators 2!

|

 **Sarah** @ParsonAcesFan ∙ 3h

I love winning. Can the Canucks please lose tonight so we can feel safe in our wildcard spot for a day or two?

 

         ------------- 

 

 **Scotty** @Damian_Scott ∙ 1h

Checking out Nashville w/ @kvparson90 @becknewton95 @bretowers @thehofmaestr0

[PHOTO]

 

         ------------- 

 

 **Tomas [11:43 pm]:** Having fun?

 **Kent [11:50 pm]:** yessss

 **Kent [11:51 pm]:** i love therapy now im all chill abt stuff

 **Tomas [11:52 pm]:** I think that might be the drinking, mon minou

 **Kent [11:53 pm]:** nnoo i was all zen this morning too

 **Kent [11:53 pm]:** i wntd to invite u t my room but khadjhia said not to push t

 **Tomas [11:54 pm]:** Maybe next time, eh?

 **Kent [11:55 pm]:** eh

 **Kent [11:55 pm]:** thats not evn a qeubec thng

 **Tomas [11:56 pm]:** I didn’t know your texting could get even worse

 **Kent [11:57 pm]:** pls u like it

 **Tomas [11:57 pm]:** I like you

 **Tomas [11:57 pm]:** I should get back to my blog post

 **Tomas [11:58 pm]:** Have fun and good luck with your hangover tomorrow

 **Kent [11:59 pm]:** u toooooo

 

         ------------- 

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces ∙ 1h

Final score: Aces 1, Sabres 3.

|

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces ∙ 1h

Despite tonight’s loss, we end this roadie with five points in four games!

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces ∙ 1h

Getting back on the plane…

[PHOTO]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ce temps chaud, c’est fucking bullshit.” = the warm weather is fucking bullshit.  
> "Il va bien?” = Is he okay?
> 
> I've had a weird week so I've done the absolute minimum in terms of proofreading for this chapter. Apologies if there are more typos than usual! 
> 
> Reminder that C made a playlist for Tomas, which you can find as the third work in this series! It's very lovely. Also a reminder that I love comments with my entire heart.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: Therapy, progress, setbacks, and the birth of Hailey Troy. This week: enough is enough, and sometimes you gotta do something drastic.
> 
> Heads up: there's some particularly disgusting homophobia in this one, including threats of violence. Tread carefully.
> 
> I haven't responded to any of the comments I received this past week, for which I apologize. I still read all of them!! I love your comments and this week I hope to get back to responding to all the amazing thoughts you guys leave me after reading!
> 
> Thanks to C (<3) and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

“I feel good,” he tells Khadija, which makes for a nice change.

“I’m glad to hear that,” she says, and she does look genuinely pleased for him, which makes him smile in return.

“Yeah,” he says. “Obviously we lost the first game back, but now we’ve won two in a row and it’s looking more likely we might make the playoffs. And, I don’t know, I feel good. About, you know, me and Tomas. I was kinda nervous yesterday morning after he stayed over, but I tried to go over what I was thinking and whether it made sense, and I think that helped.”

“That’s great,” Khadija says.

“I feel like I need one of those 'it has been x days' signs,” he says. “For, I don’t know, panic attacks, I guess. ‘4 days since last nonsense’.”

Khadija laughs. “Well, let’s talk about your thought processes yesterday morning and see if we can extend that a little.”

 

         -------------  


“Hey Maestro, get me another beer!” Carly’s voice carries to where Maestro is chatting up the blonde woman behind the bar.

“Yeah, for me too,” Skids hollers.

“Get it yourself,” Maestro shouts back.

“Right, but so I was at this golf tournament,” Kimmy says. He’s next to Kent in one of the booths the team has claimed. “You should’ve been there, Kent, it was awesome.”

“Nah, I don’t play golf.” Kent takes a sip of his beer.

“Why not? Golf is great,” Esko cuts in, pulling up a chair for himself at their table.

Kent shrugs. “I just don’t. Anyway, you were at this tournament, and then what? Pretty sure you started this story two hours ago, man.”

“Yeah dude, you can’t tell it for shit,” Dave says from Kent’s other side. “Right, this tournament was for this kids charity, you know? The, like, the cancer one I think.”

“Right and the guy who owns it has a daughter, this chick with red hair and an ass that won’t quit,” Kimmy says. 

Kent knows he’s supposed to be listening, but everybody in his booth is a little tipsy anyway, and this story isn’t going anywhere. He glances across the room.

There’s a couple behind a table in the corner, side by side on the bench against the wall. They’ve been there since before the Aces guys arrived, fresh off of a win at an afternoon game at home.

Kent doesn’t know if his gaydar is finally coming online, or maybe they’re just not hiding it. Either way, he was pretty sure the two guys were together, even before the blond one reached out over the table and took the other guy’s hand.

There’s no real reason to see himself in them, other than the fact that they must be around his age, and one of them is blond. But he can tell even from across the room that the guy must be several inches shorter than Kent is, and he’s wearing glasses, and he has—Kent decided—exceptionally poor fashion sense. And if that guy makes a poor stand-in for Kent, the other one resembles Tomas even less: he’s Latino, with long curly hair and a beard, wearing some kind of band T-shirt. Kent can’t really picture him in a button-down at all.

He’s still projecting, imagining what it’d be like to just hold hands with Tomas in a bar somewhere and clearly not care who’s watching. The thought is a little anxiety-provoking, but somehow it’s also nice to picture it. Maybe it’s the beers he’s had, or the goal he scored three hours ago, that make him relaxed enough to actually enjoy it.

He has therapy tomorrow morning, and he’s kind of looking forward to telling Khadija that he saw two guys holding hands and didn’t have a panic attack, didn’t get a weird twist of fear or disgust in his stomach, didn’t feel his hands tremble. He thinks maybe he’s proud of himself for that.

The two over in the corner haven’t noticed him. They don’t seem to be paying attention to anything but each other, really.

Kimmy has finished the story that Kent wasn’t listening to. He gets himself and Kent another beer, and then the conversation turns to the afternoon’s game. Scotty leans over the divider between Kent’s booth and the next one—where he’s sitting with Carly, Birds, Kelly, and Tanner—to brag about his assist on Kent’s goal.

“Nah, man, it was a sick shot. Parse didn’t have to do anything but tip it in, anyone could’ve done that,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Kent’s hair.

Kent sees the movement coming a mile away, because Scotty is three shades tipsier than he is. He snatches Scotty’s wrist and twists it just a bit. “Watch it, kid,” he says, pushing Scotty back so he almost loses his balance where he’s leaning on the divider.

The guys around him laugh at Scotty, and Kent grins along. He feels good. It’s always nice to win an afternoon game, when there’s an evening to enjoy it. Almost the entire team came out for drinks, minus Swoops and Diver who both have newborns. Everyone is in good spirits.

“Hey, you and Swoops go to the UNLV games, right?” Dave says beside him.

“Sorry, what?” Kent says.

“The basketball games,” Dave says.

“Oh yeah, the Rebels ones? Yeah, we do,” Kent says. “They suck. It’s fun stuff.”

Esko chuckles beside him. “If they suck, why do you go?”

“Hey hey, what’s that attitude,” Kent says. “Dude, they need more support when they’re losing, not less. How’d you feel if people stopped coming every time we were on a losing streak? And it’s like—inter-sports unity or whatever. Swoops is big on that stuff.” Across the bar, the blond guy leans over and puts his head on his boyfriend’s shoulder. The boyfriend rubs his thumb over the back of the blond guy’s hand. Kent hides his smile in his beer glass.

“Hey, you fucking faggots! You wanna fuck off and be disgusting somewhere else?”

Kimmy’s voice rings in Kent’s ears as it cuts across the room, over the music. Kent’s blood freezes in his veins. He doesn’t look to his left, where Kimmy is leaning lazily against the booth’s backrest as he shouts.

The blond guy makes a startled movement. The entire Aces team’s eyes must be on him now; conversation in Kent’s booth has fallen silent completely.

“Woah, hey now, you don’t—” Dave says, but Kimmy cuts him off.

“You fucking heard me, you cocksucker! Get the fuck out!” Kimmy yells. He trips over the slur, his voice slow with alcohol.

There’s a pause where everything is still, and Kent feels like the entire bar must be holding their breaths. The bartender is looking away. Kent’s not sure if she’s afraid to get into a fight with a bunch of pro athletes, or she just doesn’t care.

The blond guy lifts his head off his boyfriend’s shoulder. For a second, Kent thinks he might just stop being affectionate, diffuse the tension, and all of this will stop. Then the guy lifts his and his boyfriend’s hand, lets go, and very deliberately flips Kimmy off.

Behind Kent, Scotty leaps out of the other booth. He stumbles across to the table in the corner, Birds right behind him. The blond guy gets to his feet, and yeah, he’s definitely shorter than Kent, which means he barely comes up to Scotty’s shoulder.

Kent feels stuck to his seat. None of the others move or say anything as Scotty pushes drunkenly at the blond man’s shoulder. Over the music, it’s impossible to hear what they’re saying now that they’re so close to each other.

The Latino guy has gotten to his feet, and he tugs on his boyfriend’s arm. The boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice, instead shoving Scotty until Scotty, drunk and clumsy, stumbles back a step.

Birds’ “Hey!” is audible even across the bar. For a second, Kent thinks there are going to be actual punches thrown, but Birds just shoves the blond guy back until the back of his knees hits the bench behind him and he can’t help but half-fall into his seat. Birds towers over him. “трахни тебя, педерасты!” he yells. “You keep gross hands off friend!”

“We’re going,” the Latino guy says, grabbing both their jackets and all but dragging his partner out the door.

Kimmy is grinning, flipping the two guys off behind their backs as they disappear out the door. “Good fucking riddance,” he says. “Disgusting.”

Esko and Dave glance at each other uncertainly, but neither of them say anything. There’s a couple of seconds’ worth of silence. Behind Kent, he can just make out Carly saying, “Was that really necessary?”

He can’t hear Birds’ or Scotty’s response, because Dave says, “Uh, so, uh, the Rebels suck?”

“The women’s team is pretty good,” Kent says, without really thinking about it. He can’t feel his legs. When he looks down at his hands, his fingers are trembling.

He holds out ten minutes, somehow without succumbing to the panic attack he’s definitely on the verge of. Then he makes up some flimsy excuse and clambers out of the booth, ignoring the disappointed groans of his teammates. 

The ringing in his ears goes down a little as soon as he’s more than three feet away from Kimmy. He slides a fifty across the bar. The bartender looks up at him. He doesn’t know if she looks disappointed and angry, or if he’s just projecting his own feelings at himself onto her.

“Keep the change,” he says. “For the, the guys in the corner, cause they didn’t…”

“Right,” she says. “Thanks.”

Outside, he ducks around a corner and into a dark, empty alley. His breathing rattles in his ears as he sits down heavily on the pavement. The panic gets worse before it gets better. “Zero days since last nonsense,” he whispers to himself as soon as he’s got the breath for it.

It takes ten minutes before he can get his hands steady enough to order a Lyft. By the time he’s in the back of a car, he’s calmed down enough that the driver doesn’t notice anything odd. But when he gets home and Kit runs up to be petted, his hands are still shaking. He leans against the counter and pulls out his phone.

 **Kent [11:09 pm]:** you know how ive been talking to khadija abt leaving the aces

 **Tomas [11:10 pm]:** Yeah?

 **Kent [11:10 pm]:** think im gonna call michelle tomorrow

 

         -------------

 

Kent invites Michelle over to his place. Khadija had agreed that he shouldn’t do this on the phone, and he sure as hell isn’t going to do it in a coffeeshop somewhere. Taking Tomas out on a date is one of his long-term therapy goals, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to discuss his sexuality with his agent in public right now.

She’s been at his apartment before, when they had a lot of financial papers to go over or there were other reasons not to meet at the rink or in a restaurant somewhere. He knows she won’t think anything is off about it. But it still feels like she can see straight through him when he opens the door to let her in.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“Please,” Michelle says, which doesn’t surprise him. He’d asked her once—maybe when he was still in the Q or had just signed with the Aces—how much coffee she had a day, and she’d just laughed.

They’re at the breakfast bar a few minutes later, her with coffee and him with a glass of juice. He drums his fingers on the bar.

He’s the one who invited her, so for once she’s not immediately breaking out her laptop and her binder full of information on his investments and his real estate. Instead, she wraps her hands around her mug and meets his eyes.

It’s quiet for a moment, as if she senses that he wants to say something. But she’s not his therapist and can’t stand his silence long.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“Uh, yeah, fine,” he says. He trails a finger down through the condensation that’s gathering on the outside of his cold glass. They fall silent again.

“Was there something specific you wanted to discuss?”

“Uh.” He swallows. He’s going to tell her what he wants and he’s going to tell her why. He prepared the conversation with Khadija. He can start with the easier part—though he knows it isn’t actually going to be easy to make it happen. “I want to leave the Aces.”

Michelle looks at him for a moment. He can’t tell if she’s surprised to hear it; she just looks kind of neutral. “All right,” she says. “Then it’s a good thing you didn’t sign with them last summer. Of course, we can’t officially negotiate with teams until July 1st, but—”

“No,” he says. “I want to leave the Aces _now_. I—I don’t mean after my contract is up. I want out. I want you to get me traded.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You want to get traded now? Before the deadline?”

“Yes,” he says. He’s been turning it over in his head for weeks, going back and forth on whether he needed to do this. Now that the decision is made, it feels amazing to tell Michelle, even though he knows he’s going to have to offer an explanation.

“That’s not going to be easy,” Michelle says.

“I know.”

“You’re in a playoffs spot. Which the Aces might lose if you leave now.”

“I know.”

“They won’t want you to walk, but they’re expecting you to re-sign. It might be hard to get them to shift into a mindset where they want to think about trading you.” Michelle is looking at him like he’s a puzzle she’s trying to solve.

“I pay you a boatload of money every year to figure that sort of stuff out,” he says, a little more defensively than he means to.

Her gaze turns sharp. “You pay me to take care of your professional and personal interests,” she says. “So maybe you could start by telling me why you suddenly want to get traded before the end of your contract.”

He swallows and looks away. He knew she was going to ask this. “Uh,” he says. Khadija had offered to let him practice this conversation with her, and he’d turned it down because that seemed weird. Now he wishes he’d taken her up on it.

“You’ve never breathed a word about problems with the organization,” Michelle says after several long seconds. “If there’s a dispute with someone, we can figure it out. Or if someone is creating a problem—”

“ _Everyone_ is creating a fucking problem,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “I’m… I… I have a problem with the team,” he says. “No. I mean. I guess the team has a problem with me.” Or at least they would, if they knew.

“What kind of problem?” she asks, and she looks concerned now.

“I’m… It’s…” He takes a deep breath. “Fuck, this is hard. Uh, sorry,” he adds, because that’s the second time he swears, and he knows she’s not a fan of that. “Sorry, I just… Fuck. _Sorry_ , sorry,” he says again, dimly aware that he probably sounds like a madman. He takes a deep breath. “I’m gay.”

He sees her eyes widen just before he looks down at his hands again. “Well,” she says after a moment. “That’s… I didn’t realize.”

“Right,” he says. He resists the urge to say _neither did I_. He clenches his hands into fists so he can pretend they aren’t shaking. “Yeah. So. So it’s…”

“Does someone on the team have a problem with that?” she says, and she sounds a little more sympathetic now.

“No. I mean, yeah, I guess, but they don’t, uh. They don’t know about it,” he says. He takes a deep breath and lets it out on a sigh. It helps a little, as always. “I’m—I’ve been—I’m seeing a therapist,” he says, which is almost harder to admit than the other thing. “Because I had, I have—because I suck at dealing with being gay, I guess. And I—I hate my team,” he admits, because he’s been realizing over the past two months just how true it is. Half a dozen times, he started to feel a little better, until one of them made him feel worse. “Not all of them,” he adds hastily, because Swoops is honestly the fucking best, and there’s a couple other guys who are fine. “But most of them, because they’re all a fucking—shit, sorry. They’re all a _freaking_ bunch of homophobes and I can’t deal with it. I can’t—I can’t be on the ice and feel like there’s two dozen people around me who would despise me if they knew, because it’s—it’s hard enough to not lose my shit about the possibility of someone in the press finding out, or what fans would think, or just... I can’t deal with it, or maybe I can but I… I don’t want to, and I deserve better, and I need to get the hell—the heck out of here.”

He’s still looking down at where his fingers are intertwined on the breakfast bar. Michelle reaches out and puts her hand over his for just a moment. When he looks up, she smiles encouragingly at him.

“All right,” she says, and he breathes out in relief. “I understand, but Kent, getting you traded before your contract ends is going to be a challenge, especially on such short notice. You’re in a much better position if you play out your contract and negotiate with different teams in July.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I know it’s just a couple of months, but I’m—I’m done here. I don’t—I’d rather just fucking quit and be in breach of contract than stay in this fucking—sorry. I mean. I’ve been dealing with this shit for ten years and I can’t—I know this is sudden, I know the timing is terrible, but enough is enough.”

“All right, then I don’t suppose I can do anything to change your mind,” Michelle says, but she doesn’t look too upset with him even though he keeps swearing _and_ he just threatened to breach his contract with the Aces. “We’ll need to look carefully at the trading options,” she continues, reaching for her notepad and scribbling something down. She’s in strategizing mode now, clearly. “They’d have to have space for you under the cap, for starters... Have you given any thought to where you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” he says, suddenly a little overwhelmed now that this is actually happening. “Just… somewhere _You Can Play_ really likes, I guess.”

She nods thoughtfully. “It’d have to be a playoffs team, probably,” she says. “And I assume you’d want it to be a team that will sign you long-term after the playoffs, or we have to scout a suitable team all over again.” She frowns at the words scribbled on her notepad. Then she looks up at him and smiles. “Well, I did always like a challenge. Let’s get you traded.”

  
         -------------

 

“How are you feeling?” Khadija asks.

Kent breathes out slowly. “Tired,” he says. “I didn’t sleep well the last couple of days. ‘Cause I knew I was going to tell Michelle, and it was… I dunno. It was scary.”

“That’s understandable,” Khadija says. “You’ve taken a big step.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Seems like that should make me feel better.” Instead, he feels a little like he’s going to cry.

Khadija looks at him kindly. If she keeps doing that, he’s definitely going to cry. “Did you know that moving and starting a new job are both in the top ten of most stressful life events?” she says. He frowns a little but doesn’t say anything. After a moment, she starts talking again—so apparently, that silence trick works in reverse too. “Starting a new job and moving to a different city both change a lot about your daily routines,” she says. “That can be incredibly challenging. In your case, you don’t know where you’ll be moving, which makes it more stressful. It isn’t surprising that you’re overwhelmed.”

“Right.”

“And making a big life decision can often bring a sense of relief, which lets you feel how tired you’ve been all along,” she adds.

“Great. When does it go away?” he snaps. He feels bad immediately, because Khadija is great and doesn’t deserve him being a dick.

She doesn’t seem affected by his tone. “It might take a while. Remember what we talked about in one of our first sessions? Going to therapy doesn’t make things better overnight.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, and he knows how sulky he sounds and still can’t stop.

“You’ve just taken a big step to improve your circumstances, and you’re making progress in recognizing and responding to your anxiety. You’re doing what you can. Now you need to be kind to yourself and give yourself time to recover and adjust.”

  
         -------------

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1h

Final score: Aces 4, Penguins 2!

 

 **Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 1h

Ugh why did the Flames have to win too? I don’t like it when they have as many points as we do. At least we’re still ahead!

 

 **Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 1h

Exciting times ahead with the standings very tight in the Pacific. Will be interesting to see who’s going to make a desperate, ill-advised move before the trade deadline.

|

 **Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 1h

Flames seem like they might be prime candidates in the Pacific this year given their goalie situation. Oilers could make a last-ditch attempt to not miss the playoffs twice in a row. Should be an interesting twenty days until then.

  
         -------------

 

“Michelle says I need to keep my options open in terms of teams,” Kent says.

Tomas rolls over so he’s on his side, facing Kent, though they can’t really see each other in the dark of Tomas’ bedroom.

“For getting traded?” he says.

“Yeah.” Kent has his hands folded under his head, staring up at where Tomas’ stars are glowing faintly in the darkness. “We’re not in a great position to negotiate, so we can’t be any pickier about teams than just to exclude the ones that wouldn’t solve the problem.” There’s teams out there whose reputations are as bad or worse than the Aces, and the last thing he needs is to have the same problem but in a different city. “So it’s—basically at least half the teams that are still in the running for a potential playoffs spot. Could even be a division rival.”

“That makes sense,” Tomas says. His voice sounds even, neutral, the way it has every time Kent has brought up getting traded. It’s impossible to read, and it kind of freaks Kent out. “Division rivals,” Tomas repeats. “Are you okay with that?”

“I think so,” Kent says. “It’s not like… I mean, if I screw over the Aces by going to a rival, well, fuck them anyway.” Khadija has been telling him that his recent anger at the Aces is a normal, natural reaction and not something he needs to worry about, but it’s still weird to feel all this resentment for the team he’s poured all his energy into for years.

Tomas huffs out a laugh beside him. “Yeah. Who else is on the list?”

Kent shrugs. “I don’t know, a bunch of teams. Flames, Schooners, Sharks—obviously those are all immediate rivals, so that’d be fun. The Hawks are a non-starter, but the Blues and the Jets might be options. Out east, there’s Flyers, Rangers, Devils, Red Wings. Leafs, though they don’t really have space.” He pauses for a moment. “Habs.”

“Oh my god, you would look so hot in a Habs jersey,” Tomas says.

Kent snorts out a laugh. “Of course that’s the first thing you think of.”

“Uh,” Tomas says. “I mean, obviously that’s not the most important part.”

“Sure,” Kent teases. “That’s why it’s the first thing you said.”

Tomas squeezes his arm. “What team are you hoping for?”

“I don’t know,” Kent says. “I just hope wherever I end up is better than here. But I guess I won’t know till I get there.” He takes a deep breath, lets it out in a sigh. “I guess I have the playoffs to try it out, before I sign a longer contract,” he says. “It’s like a trial period, you know? See if it really is better, before I commit to another six or seven years.”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Tomas says, but he sounds a little distant now.

They fall silent. Tomas probably thinks Kent is going to fall asleep, is maybe already asleep, because Kent is usually out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow.

The thing is, they’re not really talking about what happens to _them_ once Kent is out of Vegas. He’s thought about getting traded for months, and he’s mentioned it to Tomas a couple of times throughout that time, but now it could be less than two weeks away. He’s never actually _been_ traded, because he’s always been with the Aces, but he knows it’s a whirlwind. When Esko came to the Aces, they’d played against him on a Tuesday night, and by Thursday morning Esko was at the Aces’ morning skate and Kent was offering him his guest room.

Tomas’ breathing is steady beside him, but not slow the way it is when Kent wakes up in the morning and Tomas is still fast asleep.

“Tomas?” he says quietly.

“ _Ouais_?” Tomas says, and he sounds sleepy even though it’s early for him. Kent should maybe not be doing this right now. But he suddenly can’t stand the thought of being in some new city two or three weeks from now and still not knowing where they stand.

“What are we… I mean. If I get— _When_ I get traded,” he says, because it’s up in the air, but he has to have a little faith that it’s going to work out. “Do you… What do you want to do?”

Tomas doesn’t respond immediately, but he reaches out and tugs at Kent’s wrist until Kent pulls his hand from under his head and Tomas can lace their fingers together. Kent isn’t sure that he likes either the long pause or the fact that Tomas apparently feels like they need to hold hands before he can answer. “What do you want me to do?” Tomas asks.

“Evasive,” Kent mumbles. Tomas doesn’t say anything else. Kent swallows and squeezes Tomas’ hand. “I, uh…”

He should maybe lie and not come across as completely clingy, but he’s promised Tomas to be honest about stuff, and he means to keep his promise. He could say he doesn’t want to talk about it, which is what he does now if he can’t tell the truth. He could, but he’s been avoiding this for long enough that his comment just now was maybe aimed at himself as much as at Tomas.

“I,” he tries again. “I want you to come with me.” He can feel his heart race as he goes on without meaning to, “I know it, like, hasn’t been that long, and I know you have a job and a life here and everything, so this is fucking selfish. I don’t even know where I’m going, and maybe you don’t even want to come with me, but I—” He cuts himself off before he can say _I love you_ and really take this into too-much-too-soon territory. “I just, fuck, I really want you to,” he says.

Tomas lets go of Kent’s hand, which is terrifying until Tomas slides closer and wraps his arm around Kent’s middle. “Thank god,” he says.

“Oh,” Kent breathes.

“I think I should finish out the season with the Aces,” Tomas says. “It’s easier to find something new in the off-season when everything’s rearranging. And maybe people might notice if we both move to the same city at the same time. It’ll be easier for you if they don’t.” Kent rolls onto his side so he can bury his face against Tomas’ chest, because Tomas thinks of that sort of stuff now, and Kent really doesn’t deserve him.

“Okay,” he says. Tomas pulls him in closer, warm and solid and perfect.

“And if you sign in July, we’ll know you’re staying there, wherever _there_ is,” Tomas says.

“Yeah,” Kent breathes. He doesn’t really want to be away from Tomas from March till July, but the idea of that is overshadowed by the thought that Tomas wants to move with him. 

“I hate Vegas, anyway,” Tomas says.

Kent laughs. “Too much sun, huh?”

“It’s the middle of the winter, I deserve snow,” he says. “And everything here is just so... over the top.”

“I want to defend Vegas, but I’m leaving,” Kent says, and those words still evoke a little thrill. He presses a kiss to Tomas’ clavicle. “And I know it isn’t just the city that’s the problem,” he adds, because if there’s anyone who understands his resentment for the Aces, it’s Tomas. Kent is actually glad he knows Tomas doesn’t like the city. He’d probably feel way guiltier about asking Tomas to come with him if he’d thought Tomas loved Vegas and wanted to live there for the rest of this life. “You’d thought about this already, right?” he asks.

“Yeah, of course,” Tomas says. “I mean, I’ve known for a while I wouldn’t want to stay here forever, so obviously when it became clear you were going to move… Well. I thought about it. But I didn’t want to assume…” He trails off.

Kent traces a circle over Tomas’ skin with the tip of his nose. “I really, really want you to come with me,” he says.

Tomas rubs his back. “I really want to go with you,” he says. “In July, yeah? I can start job hunting as soon as we know where you’re going.”

“Okay,” Kent says. He shuffles a little closer so he’s pressed against Tomas all the way from his chest to his lower legs.

Tomas kisses his hair. “Okay,” he says back. It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then he says, “I love you.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Kent says, and it’s kind of hard to breathe all of a sudden. “I—Really?”

Tomas chuckles. “Really,” he says.

He’s definitely not going to cry. “I—I love you too,” he says hoarsely. “I’m so fucking in love with you.”

Tomas tightens his arm around him. “I love you,” he repeats, and Kent doesn’t even know what to do with the warmth that fills him to the tips of his fingers and toes. “You’re amazing,” he adds.

“Why?” Kent says before he can stop himself. But seriously, _why_?

“Going after what you need,” Tomas says quietly. “Enduring shit from your team for years just for being who you are. Still being funny and sweet and kind.”

Okay, he _is_ going to cry. At least Tomas is wearing a shirt so he might not notice. “Okay,” he mumbles.

Tomas doesn’t say anything else, just holds him close and presses his lips to Kent’s hair again. It’s warm and comfortable and everything Kent wants, and for some reason he gets to have it. He reaches up to wipe away his tears discreetly, though he’s probably not fooling anyone.

“Go to sleep, _mon minou_ ,” Tomas says quietly. “ _Je t’aime_.”

And if that’s going to be the last thing Kent hears at night before he falls asleep, he can definitely live with that.

  
         -------------  


It’s halfway through February when Kent finds himself sitting across from three smiling Aces executives. He’s never been more grateful to have Michelle by his side. Her calm demeanor, unlike his, is probably actually reflective of how she’s feeling.

“Kent, I’m glad you wanted to meet with us,” Hal says. He smiles warmly. That’s probably not going to last long.

Hal looks every bit the executive. He’s wearing a charcoal suit and square glasses which emphasize how angular his features are. His hairline has receded so far that he only has a circle of thinning pepper-and-salt hair left. Two seats down from Hal, Morris is typing away on a laptop. He’s the youngest of the management team, somewhere in his late thirties maybe, with skin just a couple of shades lighter than Tomas’, and he’s dressed more casually in a jacket and t-shirt. Kent hasn’t really talked to him before, because he hasn’t had contract negotiations in years. He glances at Morris’ MacBook, sleek and with an Aces sticker in the corner. The tap of Morris’ fingers against the keys is barely audible in the quiet boardroom. Even though he’s not used to these meetings, Kent is pretty sure Morris doesn’t need to take notes on how happy they are to talk to him. Maybe he’s just sending unrelated emails—Morris always looks bored in meetings, anyway, at least until the topic has shifted to dollars, bonuses and AAVs.

“We’re incredibly pleased with the way you’ve developed over your years with the Aces,” Ned says. Ned has been the Assistant GM since before Kent was with the Aces and has probably wanted a promotion for longer. Now he’s got to be nearing retirement age, judging by the shade of grey that his hair has turned.

 _Yeah, you’d better be_ , Kent thinks. He’s the franchise’s all-time top goal-scorer and he’s landed them both of the Stanley Cups they’ve ever won. “Thanks,” he says. They seem to expect him to say more, but he doesn’t.

After a moment, Ned continues, “I know you weren’t ready to sign a new contract last summer, but we’re really excited to sit down with you now and figure out what we can do over the next few years.”

Kent is nervous as fuck, but there’s still a sort of pleasure in sitting up a little straighter, folding his hands on the table, and saying, “Actually, I’m not here to negotiate a contract. I want to leave the Aces and I’m requesting a trade before the deadline.”

Hal has been the Aces GM for four years, and he’s notorious for smiling and saying ‘Boys will be boys’ when Viggo Goddard called a referee a fag in a post-game interview. There’s a deep sense of satisfaction in watching the business-friendly smile drop off his face when he registers what Kent just said.

“What?” Ned says, leaning forward across the table.

“I’m not re-signing,” he says.

Even Morris is staring at him now, having abandoned his typing. Kent’s hands are trembling, but he feels great.

“What?” Hal says. He’s actually gone pale, Kent notes, and now he really has to work not to smirk at these assholes. There’s a tough road ahead to get them to actually do what he wants. It’s in their own interests to trade him if he isn’t staying next season, but with his unexpected announcement, they might not immediately see reason.

“I’d like to be traded,” Kent says.

Ned snorts out a laugh. Kent can’t decide if it’s fake or he just has a weird laugh. “That’s—this is ridiculous,” he says. “Is this some kind of new negotiating tactic for your next contract? Of course you don’t want to be traded. You’ve never wanted to play anywhere else.” He shakes his head, smiling patronizingly. “Come on, Kent, be serious.”

Kent barely clamps down on the fury that rises up inside him. Michelle opens her mouth beside him, but he’s faster. “Trust me, I’m not kidding,” he says. “And I’m not negotiating a new deal. I’m not signing with you.”

The three men look momentarily taken aback by his tone. “But,” Hal says. “Well, but… But we’re not going to _trade_ you.”

“Kent is near the end of his contract,” Michelle says. “If you trade him as a playoffs loan, you might still acquire some picks and other assets, instead of having him simply walk away. You do realize that he’s not obligated to waive his no-move clause? He could easily refuse to be traded, and you’d be left with nothing.”

“We’re in a wildcard spot,” Hal sputters. “We can’t—if we trade you now, that’s—No. No, we’re not trading you. You’re here until the end of the season, through the playoffs, and then we’ll see about a new contract. Then you’ll have some more time to reconsider—”

“Trade me or I quit,” Kent interrupts. They were going to save that particular negotiating chip for later in the conversation, but it’s not like the Aces execs are taking him seriously at all, so why wait? He’s fed up with this entire organization, and his patience has run out.

“ _What?_ ” Hal says. He’s just staring at Kent now, his mouth slightly open. Down the table, Morris’ eyebrows have climbed so high it’s almost comical.

“You fucking heard me,” Kent says, because he’s going to be unreasonable anyway, so he might as well go all in. “Trade me or I quit. I’m not playing another Aces game after the deadline.”

“You—you can’t do that!” Ned sputters. “You don’t have a choice. You’re under contract with us!”

“You wanna watch me breach it?” he snaps. “Not a single fucking practice or game after the first of March. So you can either trade me and salvage something out of this, or you can wait and watch me walk away after the trade deadline, break the contract and get nothing.”

Ned huffs out a breath, and then all of a sudden he smiles, somehow both knowing and patronizing. “You’re bluffing,” he says.

“ _Try_ me,” Kent snaps. There’s more anger in it than certainty, though he doesn’t think Ned can tell. Michelle asked him before, if he meant it—warned him about the PR storm and the court claims and the trouble getting a different team to sign him, if he breached contract—and he hadn’t known the answer, and he still doesn’t know it now. But if he’s going to leave Vegas, maybe the ultimate bluff is a pretty good way to go.

“Kent, is there a problem with someone on the team?” Morris asks. It’s the first thing he’s said since Kent walked in. “Or with someone in management? If there’s a dispute, there are other options.”

He wishes, for a moment, that he could actually tell them in great detail exactly why he hates all of them. But he doesn’t think he’d want them to know anything personal about him, even if he had the courage.

When he doesn’t respond fast enough, Morris adds, “Kent, we have your best interest at heart here. Whatever the problem is, this isn’t the only option.”

“It’s in Kent’s best interest to play with another team,” Michelle cuts in.

“You’re actually condoning this… this _temper tantrum_?” Hal sputters.

“Excuse me,” Michelle says. “I won’t have my client discussed that way. I understand that this is a surprising turn to this meeting for you. We’ll keep it short—as you can hear, Kent has requested a trade. Here’s a list of twelve teams that he’s willing to be traded to.” She slides a piece of paper across the table.

Hal picks it up, but Ned doesn’t even glance at it, instead saying, “Now you’re making demands on who we get to trade you to?”

“I have a no-move clause,” Kent says dryly.

Ned sputters. Hal looks up from the paper and says, “Who says we can even find a team to take you?” He’s probably trying to sound disdainful, but he just sounds horrified instead, probably at the fact that a third of the names on the list are in the Pacific.

“If you can’t find a team that wants me, you obviously haven’t tried,” Kent says. Despite his anger, there’s something really fun about having the upper hand in this meeting with these men he despises.

Ned is beginning to look downright murderous. Michelle throws Kent a warning glance and says, “I think we’ll give you some time to negotiate with other teams. I’ll be in touch in a few days.”

She beckons Kent, and he follows her out the door after one last look at the three stunned men in the room. As he closes the door, he can just hear Ned’s “Motherfuck—” before it clicks shut.

Michelle turns to face him. “Well,” she says with a sharp smile. “That was fun.”

  
         -------------

 

 **Kent [2:03 pm]:** cards tnite my place? or is it sannes nite out

 **Swoops [2:37 pm]:** No she was out last night

 **Swoops [2:38 pm]:** 8?

 **Kent [2:42 pm]:** yup

  
         -------------

 

“Hey man. How’s Hailey?” Kent asks when he lets Swoops in.

“Still perfect and also it would be nice if she slept for more than four hours at a time,” Swoops says. Kent laughs and gestures him toward the table, where he has a deck of cards and stacks of chips laid out.

“That bad?” he asks as he pulls two beers from the fridge.

“I don’t know, man,” Swoops says. “Last week she slept from eleven to six for three nights in a row and this week we’re back to feeding at three in the morning.”

“Babies,” Kent says wisely, though what the fuck does he know about babies?

Swoops throws him a look that says he sees straight through Kent’s bullshit, and takes the beer that Kent offers him. “Thanks, man. Anyway, I can’t really stay late or Sanne will kill me, but we can get a couple games in.”

“Cool,” Kent says. “Blackjack first? We can do a round of Nertz later.”

“I hate Nertz,” Swoops grumbles.

“No, you hate losing,” Kent says with a grin. “It’s not my fault that your baby-induced sleep deprivation means you’re, what, six games behind me at this point?”

“Fuck off.” Swoops grins back at him, though, as he grabs the cards to shuffle them.

He’s first dealer, and they play a couple of rounds before switching. The room’s quiet except for the clicks of the chips. It’s comfortable, but Kent knows he’s putting off a conversation he needs to have with Swoops.

They do switch to Nertz eventually, and Swoops loses two rounds before winning one. He’s shuffling for round four when Kent glances at the kitchen, where the clock on the oven tells him it’s 9:37pm. If he doesn’t say something soon, he might not get the chance before Swoops heads home.

“So I talked to management this morning.”

Swoops looks up from where he was counting cards for next round’s stack. “Oh?” he says, something sharp and attentive in his gaze.

Kent takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “I’m getting them to trade me.”

“Shit,” Swoops says. His hands have gone still on the cards.

“You know… You know what the team is like,” Kent says. “And you know I’m…” He hesitates, rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to deal with it, not really, and I can’t… The other day, when we went out for drinks after the Penguins game, Scotty and Birds almost got in a fight with this… this gay couple. At the bar we were at.” He watches anger settle in on Swoops’ face, and swallows. “Every time I feel like I’m… Like I’m doing better, like I’m… I don’t know, accepting myself or whatever… Every time, something like this happens. So I need to leave. I need to be with a team that doesn’t, you know, spew shit all the time about how the ref’s a faggot, or try to punch out couples at a bar, or rave about how Zimms shouldn’t be allowed on the ice ‘cause he’s with a guy.”

Swoops is just looking at him now, his face blank. “Yeah,” he says. “Shit.”

Kent rubs at his arm. “I—You know, I think you’re the only thing I’m really going to miss about this place,” he says, because Swoops damn well deserves to hear it.

He’s never seen Swoops cry, but a muscle twitches in Swoops’ jaw and he kind of expects he might, now. “God,” Swoops says. “I’m… Fuck. I’m so—” He swallows visibly. “I’m so fucking proud of you, man, and I’m—” He breaks off again. “If I start crying, it’s because I haven’t slept.”

Kent can’t help but giggle a little at that, and then Swoops chuckles as well.

It’s quiet for a minute, and then Swoops says, “It’s right now, isn’t it? Before the deadline?”

“Yeah,” Kent says.

“Any idea where you’re going?”

Kent shakes his head. “We gave them a list of about a dozen—Michelle did some digging, about what their reputation is and what players think, and we excluded a couple ‘cause I don’t… I don’t want to go somewhere else and deal with the same bullshit. And not every team is going to work, anyway. They need to have the cap space, and it’s basically a playoffs loan until they can sign me long-term, so anyone who’s for sure going to miss the playoffs probably won’t be interested. But that still leaves teams in every division, so… Could be anywhere, really.”

“How did you even get them to trade you when they were trying to re-sign you?” Swoops says.

Kent rubs at his neck. “Uh, I kind of threatened to quit,” he says.

Swoops stares at him for a moment. “Damn. Bet they didn’t see that coming.”

“Hal’s face was a picture,” Kent says. All of a sudden, they’re both grinning.

They fall quiet. Swoops slowly lays out his cards, though Kent kind of doubts that either of them actually wants to play the next round. “What does Tomas think?” Swoops asks after a moment.

Kent can’t stop the smile that lifts up the corners of his mouth. “He’s… He wants to come with me.”

“Wow,” Swoops says. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I… Not right away, but after free agency, when I know it’s permanent—either with whoever takes me for the playoffs or somewhere else. He’s…” Kent shakes his head a little, still kind of in disbelief even though it’s been a couple of days since they talked about this. “He never liked Vegas all that much, not that I blame him. But it’s still kind of… I don’t know. It seems too good to be true,” he admits.

“You deserve it,” Swoops says. “I—” His phone buzzes where it’s lying on the table, and he checks it quickly. “It’s Sanne,” he says, frowning a little. “Hailey’s being fussy, she… I should head home and help out.”

“Yeah, of course,” Kent says, but neither of them move.

“I’m going to miss you,” Swoops says after a moment. “Fuck, I’m… I think… I think you’re doing the right thing, but I’m—” He shakes his head a little. “I wish I could… It doesn’t matter. I’m just gonna miss you, man.”

Kent looks down at his hands, suddenly fighting tears of his own. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too. I—I won’t be at the end of the earth, you know? It’s just a couple hours, in the end, no matter where I end up. And there’s the off-season, and whatever. Besides, I’ll see you on the ice, right?”

“Right,” Swoops says. He sighs, and then stands up.

Kent follows him to the door. Before he opens it, Swoops turns around and pulls him into a crushing hug. Kent squeezes back.

“Thanks,” Kent whispers.

“For what?” Swoops says.

“Just, you know. Don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” Kent says.

Swoops just squeezes him tighter. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I gotta go, okay?”

“Okay,” Kent says, but it’s still a long moment before Swoops lets go. “Good luck with Hailey.”

“Thanks,” Swoops says. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Totally,” Kent says, and then Swoops is gone, and Kent slowly pushes the door shut behind him.

   
         -------------

 

“Yeah, obviously Bergeron is an amazing player,” Kent says. The circle of reporters in front of him nods. “And he’s been really important for the Bruins this season. That’s something to account for whenever we go up against them. That top line is really something, so we have to adjust for that as a team.”

He accidentally locks eyes with Tomas, and Tomas’ lips quirk up in a hint of a smile. Kent looks away hastily so he doesn’t do something stupid, like dopily smile back at him or forget how sentences work. It’s been months and he’s had dozens of pressers with Tomas, but he still loses his grip whenever their eyes meet.

“How does the upcoming trade deadline affect the team, when you don’t know whether changes are coming?” Leah from _Las Vegas Now_ asks.

Kent’s heart beats in his throat. He’s damn glad he’s not looking at Tomas anymore. “Uh, yeah.” He scrambles for some kind of answer. “It’s always an uncertain time for every team, but uh, you just gotta keep playing through it. What happens on the ice is more important, so you just have to make sure not to let it get to you.”

He nods to indicate he’s done answering questions. “Thanks,” the reporters chorus, before filing out of the locker room. Kent lets out a quiet sigh and heads back to his stall.

“Did they ask you about the deadline too?” Swoops asks from beside him. He’s sitting at his stall, waiting for Kent to join him for lunch, probably.

Kent huffs out a breath as he stuffs a shirt into his bag. “Yeah. The usual about, like, the uncertainty or whatever.”

“Sounds dull,” Swoops says, a hint of irony in his voice. There’s half a dozen teammates still in the locker room, so he doesn’t add anything else, just waits for Kent to finish grabbing his things.

“Kent, do you have a minute?” Esther asks, suddenly beside him.

She glances over her clipboard while Kent exchanges a look with Swoops. Odds are, Esther found another reporter or camera crew that really wants to ask him some more questions. Or maybe she and Catrina want to talk to him about more AcesTV bits or something.

“Yeah, sure,” Kent tells her, and then, to Swoops, “Are you cool to wait?”

“Text me if it runs long,” Swoops says, already reaching for his phone.

“Will do.” Kent pushes his bag underneath the bench and follows Esther out. She doesn’t pause to let him fall into step behind her, instead staying ahead of him like she’s in a hurry. It makes him uncomfortable, because Esther is usually talking a mile a minute.

They’re nowhere near the PR department yet when Esther suddenly takes a right into a meeting room. Kent follows her, and then his breath catches when he sees Hal sitting on the other side of the table, clearly waiting for him. Morris is there, too, his MacBook set up in front of him. Ned isn’t there this time—instead, Hal has brought in Xander, the other Assistant GM. It’s admittedly a smart move because Kent likes Xander much better than Ned. Xander is in his early forties and probably going to make GM any day now. He’s smart and innovative, and unlike Hal and Ned, he’s a former player. As Kent enters and pauses in the doorway, he pushes his glasses up into his dark hair and gestures to a chair.

“Come sit,” Hal says.

Kent hesitates. Are they going to tell him he’s been traded? It seems too soon for that, and he doesn’t trust the polite smile on Hal’s face. If this were a trade announcement, he guesses they’d all look more grim.

But they clearly haven’t invited Michelle, so maybe it _is_ a trade—maybe that’s why there was no time to get her here.

He sits down. Hal smiles at him. Xander just looks serious, which Kent really prefers. He looks around and discovers that Esther has disappeared and closed the door behind her. He’s never trusting her about PR meetings again.

“We know you’ve requested a trade,” Xander says.

“Yeah,” he says cautiously.

“But we wanted to have another discussion about a future contract with the Aces,” Xander continues.

Kent feels trapped here, even though he knows he can just get up and walk away. He should do that—it’s what Michelle told him to do, if Aces management tried to talk to him without her. But it feels rude and impossible to actually walk out while these three men are staring at him, especially when one of them is Xander, who’s really not a bad person. He doesn’t say anything.

Xander goes on. “Kent, are we wrong in thinking that there’s some conflict? Maybe in the team, or with someone in management? You’re incredibly important to this organization. What is it that we need to do for you to stay here?”

His hands are shaking. He needs to not be here right now—he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want someone to paint him a pretty picture of what the Aces would be willing to do to keep him. It’s not like he could explain why he’d need them to trade half the team and change all of the management. And even if they did that… He wants to start over.

“I’m not negotiating without my agent,” he says, which is Michelle’s line.

“Oh come on, she’s just feeding you this ridiculous idea—” Hal starts, and then cuts off abruptly, possibly because Xander kicked him under the table.

“Yeah, so, I’m gonna go,” Kent says. Pushing his chair back feels like an insurmountable task with the weight of the three stares on him, but he does it, and turns, and walks out of the room.

He takes a deep breath once he’s out in the hallway, but just seconds later, Xander is behind him. “Kent! Hold up, hey,” he says. Kent turns despite himself. “Parse, listen,” Xander says. He pitches his voice low, even though there’s nobody in the hallway and he closed the meeting room door behind him. “Listen, man, what is it? This isn’t like you. Is there someone on the team? Someone in management? All you gotta do is tell me, okay? Even—Even if it’s Hal, you know ownership would rather get rid of him and keep you. We can make it happen. Is it the cap situation? Because we were already looking into offloading Vitty’s contract—and the cap is going up again this summer—we can—”

He stops when Kent shakes his head. Kent takes a deep breath. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s trade me or nothing.”

“But _why_?” Xander asks, and he sounds like he genuinely wants to know, but there isn’t a chance in hell that Kent is going to tell him.

He shrugs. “Guess you’ll be wondering about that forever. But hey, maybe it won’t sting so much if Hal gets fired over this and you make GM.”

Xander shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing even though that possibility must’ve occurred to him. “But—”

“Sorry,” Kent says again. “I gotta go. And next time you want to negotiate, talk to my agent.”

He leaves Xander in the hallway and goes to find Swoops.

  
         -------------

 

 **Kent [2:03 pm]:** hal & xander tried to abduct me earlier & make me talk about signing

 **Michelle [2:05 pm]:** Did you escape?

 **Kent [2:06 pm]:** yea told them they need to talk to you

 **Michelle [2:07 pm]:** Oh, they’ve tried. I have about thirty missed calls from Hal. I took the first five, but after that he just kept repeating himself.

 **Michelle [2:08 pm]:** Just keep ignoring them and tell them to talk to me. They’re pretending not to work on a trade, to get us back to the table, but there are things in the works.

  
         -------------

 

 **Las Vegas Aces** @LVaces · 3d

Final score: Aces 2, Ducks 3 after Bieksa puts it in the net in OT.

 

 **Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 3d

Frustrating game for the Aces as they give up the 2-goal lead in the third. Two more games in this roadie.

 

         -------------

 

“Have you heard from your team management?” Khadija asks. Kent tilts the screen of his laptop forward a little as he settles on his hotel bed.

“Not since Thursday,” he says. “Not sure if that means they’re having trouble finding someone to trade me to, or they’re just leaving it to the last moment to spite me. Hey, I was thinking…”

“Yes?”

He plucks at the hotel sheets. “Well, uh. I might be out of Vegas by next week. I’m assuming I will be, because I have no idea what to do otherwise. But you’re—I mean, I know we do Skype stuff when I’m out of town anyway, but you said in-person sessions are better, so…”

“Would you prefer to find a new therapist after you’ve moved?” Khadija says.

“No,” he says quickly. “I mean, no, I—then I’d have to find someone all over again, and I think it’s going pretty well, so…” He trails off awkwardly, looking away from the screen.

“I’m happy to keep working with you,” she says, and he breathes a sigh of relief. “If you find, after you’ve moved, that you would prefer to find someone in your new city after all, that would be perfectly fine too.”

“Okay,” he says.

 

         -------------

 

 **Kent [8:43 pm]:** i miss u

 **Tomas [8:47 pm]:** I’m not far mon minou

 **Kent [8:48 pm]:** yea i kno

 **Kent [8:48 pm]:** u writing?

 **Tomas [8:49 pm]:** I was, but this blog post is a disaster

 **Tomas [8:49 pm]:** Just watching tv now

 **Tomas [8:50 pm]:** Schooners-Coyotes game is on

 **Kent [8:50 pm]:** fuck the coyotes

 **Kent [8:50 pm]:** can i come up 2 ur room & watch it w u

 **Tomas [8:52 pm]:** Always

 **Tomas [8:52 pm]:** If you feel like it won’t make you anxious

 **Kent [8:53 pm]:** maybe a bit but like i said

 **Kent [8:53 pm]:** miss u

 **Tomas [8:54 pm]:** 231 :)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “трахни тебя, педерасты!” = Fuck you, faggots!  
> "Je t'aime" = I love you.
> 
> I know this chapter has once again been pretty Kent-centric, but we're still going to spend plenty of time in Tomas' head in future chapters, no worries! Next week: trade shenanigans.
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: Kent decided he'd had enough of the Aces; Aces management was in for a rough surprise, and Tomas will follow Kent anywhere (within reason). This week: The hockey world won't know what hit it.
> 
> Thanks to C (<3) and J for beta/proofreading work.

“God, I can’t wait to get home,” Leah says from beside Tomas. “I was up all night trying to figure out the Pietrangelo trade.”

“Yeah, me too,” Tomas says. He glances below, where the Aces and the Leafs are on the ice for warmups. “Well, hopefully this won’t go to overtime and we can all get home at a vaguely reasonable hour.”

It’s busy in the press box. The Aces are in first wildcard position, but they lost their last home game two days ago. The Leafs are coming off of a three-game losing streak on their West Coast road trip, and they need a win to stay third in their division. With the playoffs approaching and both teams on the brink, there’s an above-average number of reporters looking out over the ice.

Down on the ice, the Aces are whipping pucks at the net, Sims stopping a couple before he leaves the goal for some more stretches. Soon enough, the players disappear off the ice again. Tomas focuses back on his laptop screen and cranks out a couple of introductory paragraphs to his game recap piece. Robin Keller’s knee injury is still day-to-day, so Ari Diaz is playing fourth line. Defensive pairings have been switched up so Eskola is on the second pairing with Troy. There’s a Parson-vs-Matthews story in the game, too, though that’s been the angle that everyone went with for the past few Leafs-Aces games, so he doesn’t want to focus on it too much.

By the time he’s done, the stands have filled up. This close to the playoffs, almost every game sells out. There’s a small contingent of Leafs fans scattered throughout the stadium, but mostly the audience is black and red as far as the eye can see.

Down on the ice, the players have made their re-entry and the anthems are being sung. Tomas tries to focus, but as keeps happening the last few days, his thoughts drift to the trade that’s probably happening tomorrow or the day after. The trade deadline is three days away, but the Aces GM historically doesn’t keep his trades right until the last minute. It’s hard to tell, though. Management is understandably annoyed with both Kent and his agent, but they’ve confirmed that they are in trade talks, so at the very least they’re trying to make something happen. He doesn’t know what Kent would do if the trade just doesn’t happen. He’s not sure Kent knows either. Hopefully they won’t have to find out.

Soon enough, the puck is dropped, and the game has begun. The action on the ice makes it easier to put trade-related thoughts out of his mind. Kent loses the first faceoff to Auston Matthews, but it’s not long before the Aces win the puck back. There’s some back-and-forth across the neutral zone, until Scotty takes the puck into Leafs territory and the Aces get their first couple shots on goal.

Momentum shifts a few minutes in, but the score remains at 0-0 thanks to a couple of saves by Sims. Tomas pulls up some statistics to look at Sims’ save percentage over the last few games.

Kent’s line is on the ice again, and they manage to get the puck over the Leafs’ blue line. Newton passes to Kent, but Kent’s shot ricochets off the post with a clang, and Scotty reaches out but can’t quite make it to the rebound. Instead, the puck lands on Morgan Rielly’s stick, and he passes forward to the Aces zone, but Eskola intercepts the pass and the puck deflects out of play.

The Aces make a line change before the faceoff in the neutral zone. Just as play is about to start up again, there’s some commotion on the Aces bench. Tomas looks over just in time to see a guy in a suit tap Kent on the shoulder and say something to him.

Kent goes very still for a moment, and then he nods and stands up, clambering over a couple of teammates to get off the bench.

Leah notices just as Kent has made it to the end of the bench and disappears into the locker room. “Wait, is that Parson leaving?” she says quietly. There’s a murmur going through the press box as others notice what’s going on.

Tomas breathes through the swoop in his stomach. “Is he injured?” he says, even though he knows what must be happening. Half of him is shaking apart from nerves—where is Kent going, where is _Tomas_ going?—but the other half is still in reporter mode. He types out a note on Kent leaving, as if it’s just a regular occurrence in a regular game.

“I didn’t see anything happen on the ice,” Leah says, hands flying over her keyboard as she speaks. “And he seems to be moving okay.”

The Aces players on the ice have skated back to the bench, and there’s a confused huddle around the coach for a moment. Does the coaching staff know what’s happening? Tomas isn’t sure, but he’d bet that they have no idea, because they look just as confused as Leah does beside him.

A referee breaks into the Aces huddle and gestures at the faceoff dot. There’s still confused muttering around Tomas in the press box, but the game gets back on track.

Tomas is pretty sure nobody is going to read his game recap today, so he only feels a little bit guilty about taking his eyes off the game and opening up Twitter.

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 59s

Kent Parson just left the ice in Vegas. Unclear if injured

|

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN· 41s

Doesn’t seem to have been any incident on the ice. Parson talked briefly with staff before heading to the locker room.

 

**Elliotte Hiedman** @HiedgeHNIC · 36s

Kent Parson left the ice in Vegas… Rumours of a trade

|

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 6s

Holy shit, is Parson getting traded?

|

**Zach** @RealMrZachary · 5s

whaaaaaaaaaaat

 

Tomas can feel his heart beating in his throat. He doesn’t know where Kent is right now. Yes, they both knew this was coming, but he didn’t think it would happen in the middle of a game. And he’d expected that Kent would know where he was getting traded to at least an hour or two before the rest of the world learned about it.

Tomas is going to find out in the next half hour where he’s going to live, starting this summer, and there’s nothing he can do to influence what it’s going to be. He doesn’t let himself think about the Habs, because he doesn’t really think they’re the most likely. He’s going to go wherever it’s going to be, and it’ll be better than Vegas even if it’s not Montreal. 

Leah glances over at his screen. “A _trade_?” she says, too loudly. Normally she’d get shushed, but the press box has broken out in whispers.

Suddenly there’s a groan going through the crowd below, and when Tomas turns his attention to the ice, the puck is in the Aces’ net. The crowd probably has no idea what’s happening somewhere else in the rink—and Tomas is supposed to be writing a game recap, which should probably include the Leafs goals.

The jumbotrons show Matthews’ breakaway, and Tomas makes notes on it as quickly as he can. The net was knocked off as Matthews came rushing in, so there’s a brief pause while it’s put back on its mooring.

Tomas’ phone buzzes on the desk beside his laptop. Since his professionalism is already out of the window for tonight, he reaches out and looks at the screen.

**Émilie [8:36 pm]:** Am I having a fever dream or is your boyfriend getting traded to Seattle??

He’s been telling himself that he doesn’t care where they’re going to end up, but that’s belied by the relief that washes over him. Seattle. He can do Seattle.

**Tomas [8:37 pm]:** Not a dream, I’ll call you later

Leah elbows him in the side and gestures at her screen. She’s got Hiedman’s Twitter pulled up.

 

**Elliotte Hiedman** @HiedgeHNIC · 1m

Not sure what the final deal is, but LVA have traded Kent Parson

 

**Elliotte Hiedman** @HiedgeHNIC · 49s

Seems to be a trade with Seattle. Unclear what assets going to Vegas

 

“Holy shit,” she says. “They’re trading him to the _Schooners_?”

There’s outright conversation around them now. An ESPN journalist, four seats down from Tomas, is on the phone with someone.

There’s a minute left on the clock for the first period, and the game has devolved into some sort of weird passing back-and-forth, as if the general commotion has reached the players. Tomas doesn’t think any of them know what’s going on, but there’s an odd atmosphere in the crowd now. He can see people scrolling on their phones, talking to neighbors—there’s an odd, hushed silence as the final minute of the first period ticks away and the buzzer sounds.

The noise of conversation picks up in the press box as soon as the game goes to intermission. “Do we know what team?” someone says.

“Looks like the Schooners,” the guy beside him replies.

“What? But _why,_ ” the first guy says. “They’re one spot below the Aces right now!”

Tomas pulls his phone out and shoots off a couple of texts.

**Tomas [8:48 pm]:** Hope you’re all right

**Tomas [8:48 pm]:** Give me an update when you get a chance

It suddenly hits him that he might not even get to see Kent before he’s on a plane across the country. Mid-game trades are rare, and he wonders if Aces management made it happen like this just to spite Kent.

His screen lights up with an incoming call. He ducks into the hallway, where four other reporters are looking harried as they speak urgently into their phones. Around the corner it’s quieter, and he picks up before the call can go to voicemail.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” Kent sounds rushed. “Sorry, I have, like, thirty seconds. And I have a plane in two hours, so I gotta—But I—It’s gonna be Seattle.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “Elliotte Hiedman already knows, somehow.”

Kent lets out a dry chuckle. “Of course he does. It’s… Yeah. How are you?”

Tomas blows out a breath. “I’m not going to see you before you fly out, am I?”

“Sorry,” Kent says. “I’m—” There’s some commotion in the background, and Kent’s voice drops to just above a whisper. “I’m sorry, I gotta go, I’ll call you when I land, I’m—Are you gonna be okay?”

“Seattle’s good,” Tomas says.

“Okay. Okay, good,” Kent says. “That’s… That’s good. I love you.”

He hasn’t said it since the first time. Tomas can’t help but smile, even though his entire life is shifting. “I love you too,” he says.

There’s a muffled shout that Tomas can’t make out. “I gotta run,” Kent says. “Talk soon.”

The line goes dead, and Tomas takes a deep breath before he heads back to the press box. When he gets there, there’s new tweets in his feed.

 

**Elliotte Hiedman** @HiedgeHNIC · 1m

Deal involves a pick and a prospect going from SEA to LVA

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1m

After 20 minutes, it’s Leafs 1, Aces 0

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 1m

Kent Parson will not be playing the remainder of the game

 

**Steve Mangle Glynn** @Steve_Mangle · 47s

What is happening

 

**Adam Why** @AdamWhy · 25s

This is crazy yo

 

**Jesse Flake** @JesseFlake · 23s

Lol what

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 13s

Kent Parson has changed out of his gear, looks to be leaving the T-Mobile Arena

 

**Elliotte Hiedman** @HiedgeHNIC · 10s

Prospect Anders Adolfsson is going from SEA to LVA as part of the #ParsonTrade

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 8s

Everything about this trade is bizarre. 1) Parson getting traded, 2) to the SCHOONERS, 3) in the MIDDLE OF A GAME 4) for some goalie in the minors and maybe a pick?? That pick better be a first since this trade is going to cost the Aces these playoffs

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 1m

Because the Aces are currently in a playoffs spot, it’s hard to see why the #ParsonTrade is happening even if his next contract fell through. It depends a bit on what they get for him, but they’re almost certainly giving SEA the tools to steal away their shot at the playoffs this year.

|

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 48s

If @HiedgeHNIC is correct and they are trading for picks and prospects, should we consider the Aces to be rebuilding?

|

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 5s

It was assumed they’d make it to the playoffs, but it’s doubtful they hold on to wildcard spot without Parson and with the Schooners & Canucks right behind them.

 

“The crowd knows,” Leah says from beside him. Tomas has to focus to get himself out of his twitter feed. He feels jittery, excited and nervous at the same time.

“What?” he says.

She gestures at the people below, and it’s obvious immediately that she’s right. Tomas can’t put his finger on it, but the crowd looks different—quieter, maybe, more subdued. It could just be the one-goal deficit, but the atmosphere is off.

The Aces players don’t look any different when they get back on the bench, but Tomas knows they’re going to lose as soon as the game starts up again. It’s clear that they do know something’s going on, even if they don’t know the details. There’s several hits in the first few minutes that are harder than they need to be, and there’s a sloppiness to the defense that Tomas hasn’t seen from them in weeks.

Nylander jams a puck behind Sims four minutes into the second period, and after that it’s a barrage of shots and shot attempts from the Leafs offense. Kapanen scores ninety seconds after Nylander does, and by the time the second period draws to a close, Matthews has scored his second, Komarov has scored as well, and Gardiner has racked up three assists.

“Damn,” Leah says when the buzzer sounds for the second intermission. “If this is what the Aces are going to be like without Parson, they’re in for a rough ride.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says. He twists as he hears Kent’s name behind him.

“Yeah, I just talked to him for a minute,” Jeremy Baker from ESPN says to the Leafs guy standing next to him. He types something out on his phone. “I don’t think he knew anything was happening tonight, if he even knew anything was happening at all.”

“What did he say?” Leah asks, and Jeremy turns to the two of them.

“Something about new opportunities with a new team,” Jeremy says. “You know Parson, he’s always got a quote ready. But I asked him if he knew he’d be leaving tonight’s game, and he said, ‘Well, when you start a game, you expect to finish it,’ and he didn’t sound too pleased with the world.”

“Damn,” Leah says again.

“Hiedman’s got it as a pick and a prospect. So I guess the Aces are rebuilding,” the guy beside Jeremy says.

“And I guess Parson’s rebuilding his life,” Leah says.

Jeremy clicks his tongue as he turns back to his phone. “I guess he is.”

  
         -------------  


**Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 23m

LEAFS WIN 9-1! VICTORY!

|

**Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 23m

That was the most absurd game I’ve ever seen, once Parson went off the ice. Bizarre night.

|

**Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 20m

Now I need to make a video about this game and a video about the trade. It’s just past 1 am. This is fine.

|

**Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 19m

I apologize in advance to @Mrs_Mangle for all the shouting that is about to take place.

**CapFriendly** @CapFriendly · 15m

TRADE:

 

To #Schooners

F Kent Parson

 

To #LVAces

2019 3rd round pick

G Anders Adolfsson

 

Details: t.co/uiOuYpPlkJ

 

The #LVAces retain 39% of Kent Parson’s salary.

 

**Las Vegas Aces** @LVAces · 12m

We wish Kent Parson all the best in Seattle!

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 10m

.@kvparson90 Welcome to Seattle!

 

**Sarah** **♠** @ParsonAcesFan · 7m

My life is ruined #ParsonTrade #Imdying #mybaby

  
         -------------  


The mood in the locker room hits Tomas as soon as he steps inside. Leah is beside him, her phone already set to record. “It’s like someone died,” she hisses at Tomas.

He’s been in plenty of locker rooms right after a loss, even right after a bad loss, but this is much worse. Even though almost the entire team is still there, toweling off or getting changed, there’s an oppressive silence in the room. It’s broken only by a couple of the younger guys whispering furiously to an assistant coach over in one corner.

“We’re going to have Hal available in a couple of minutes,” says Esther from the PR staff. Her hair looks like she’s been raking her fingers through it for the past two hours. He’s not used to seeing her out of sorts. “It’s just going to be Troy and Sims available for interviews here—No, we’re not taking other requests,” she cuts in over the rising voices of some of the reporters.

“Can Damian Scott—” one of them tries anyway.

“Damian is not available for interviews,” Esther says decisively. The glare that Scotty sends her from across the room suggests he’d love to tell the press exactly what’s on his mind right now, which is probably why he’s not allowed.

“How about—”

“Troy and Sims,” she says again. “Take it or leave it, guys.”

There’s a grumble in the little crowd of reporters, but everybody falls silent when Jeff steps into the center of their semi-circle, adjusting the Aces snapback on his head.

There’s a moment where nobody actually seems to want to ask a question. Then the guy to Leah’s other side says, “Tough night for all of you, what’s—what happened out there tonight?”

Jeff rubs a hand over his neck. “Yeah. Uh, yeah, obviously a rough game there, after—yeah. I mean, we gotta find a way to hold together and break out of it when the other team is on the offensive. We need to turn those situations around and not, you know, give up goals that fast consecutively because it just puts us in a situation where you’re behind and it’s harder with every goal you let in to get out of that.”

There’s still nobody who seems to want to ask about Kent outright, even after all the hassle to get more interviews, so Tomas says, “You got the only Aces goal of the night, tell us about that play.”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, it was a good pass from Esko, he got me in a great situation, so.” Jeff swallows. “I guess that one was for Kent.”

Four reporters start a question at the same time, once the name has been mentioned. Jeff gestures half-heartedly at Leah, and she says, “What are your thoughts on this trade?”

Jeff lets out a slow breath. “It’s—I mean, he’s been so important to this team ever since he was drafted here, obviously, and it’s—it’s a big change for the team and for the city to see him go. Obviously they finalized a deal while we were playing and he got pulled out, and it’s—” He breaks off, pauses, but before anyone can ask a follow-up, he says, “I hear it’s gonna be Seattle for him, and I think he can be great anywhere, so that’s—I hope going there brings him good stuff, and this is gonna be a different team without him, but we are going to—obviously this game tonight is not what it’s going to be, because we can play better than we did tonight.”

“Did you guys know this was in the works?” someone asks.

There’s raised voices behind Tomas—he thinks it’s Maestro who says, “Are you fucking kidding me?” Someone shushes him, and the sound of his voice dips lower, then rises again when he says, “...don’t need fucking picks and prospects when we’re headed to the playoffs, I can’t—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” someone hisses.

Jeff clears his throat. “Uh, well, you’d have to ask Kent what he knew about it and when, ‘cause I can’t speak for that,” he says.

In the background, Scotty says, “—then we won’t make it to the playoffs! If you goddamn idiots would just—”

“Hey!” Carly yells across the room. “Shut up and let Swoops do his interviews!” There’s some noise of stumbling hockey players as Esther not-so-politely shoves Scotty and one of his teammates outside.

“Right,” Jeff says. “So. As for the rest of the team—I mean trades are part of the business, and sometimes that means losing guys from your team without a lot of heads-up. This close to the deadline it’s always a question of who’s it going to be. I don’t think anyone here saw that this was coming, but again, that’s part of the business, so that’s not—” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I mean, yeah, I don’t know what else to say, really, it’s—I mean, if you got someone like Kent and you don’t hold on to him, that’s—” He breaks off again. “All right, that’s it, folks, I don’t have anything else I wanna say about it right now.”

There’s a chorus of questions, but Jeff steps out of the group of reporters. Tomas is pretty sure the camera is still following him when he grabs the snapback off his head and hurls it to the side in a quick, vicious movement.

Rudy Sims is next to step into the circle. He looks even more chagrined than Jeff did, if not quite as defeated. He somehow manages to pivot to his own goaltending every time, even when more than half the questions are about Kent, and there’s a disgruntled rumble going through the group of reporters when they get ushered out of the room.

It’s a short walk to where Hal Davids is already behind a mic. He’s in a suit and tie, looking more together than anyone else so far. When all the journalists have gathered around, he says, “We acquired a third round pick and Anders Adolfsson from the Schooners tonight in exchange for Kent Parson. We’re very excited to be working with a young player who is motivated to see the Aces succeed.”

Tomas doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone look less excited than Hal Davids. He should probably make some attempt to pretend to believe it, though. He hadn’t realized it before, but he’s obviously going to have to write tomorrow about all the benefits that this trade has for the Aces.

“What’s the reason behind this trade?” someone asks.

“This has been in the works for a while,” Hal says, even though fourteen days ago, he didn’t know Kent wasn’t re-signing for another eight years with them. “It allows us to bring in young talent, finding depth in our goaltending as well as investing in the future through the draft. You need to be in a situation where you’ve got players who are 100% committed to the team and to the game, and when that’s not the case, obviously you’re on the lookout for opportunities to make improvements, and that’s something we were able to do tonight.”

“Do you mean Kent wasn’t committed to the team? Did he ask to be traded?” Jeremy Baker says, from right beside Tomas.

Tomas’ heart leaps to his throat. He knows Kent had very little leverage to negotiate how the story is going to go public, and if word gets out about how he got himself traded, it could do serious damage to his reputation. They’re counting on the Aces not wanting the story out, either, but it’s hard to say what the Aces management will judge to be in its best interest.

“Parson had a no-movement clause,” Hal says. “So I think, you know, you can infer from that that he consented to be traded. We’re not going to comment on conversations with him, because we want players to feel like they can speak to us about their situation and issues that are important to them without repercussions.”

There’s a discontented murmur going through the group, whether at the non-answer or at what it implies.

“His contract is up this summer,” someone else says. “Does this mean that you had no plans to re-sign him?”

There’s a flash of frustration across Hal’s face, and Tomas has to suppress a smirk because he knows exactly how badly the Aces wanted to re-sign Kent. “Obviously that’s not a relevant question right now,” Hal says, even though it obviously is.

“How do you feel about your chances to make the playoffs without your star center?” someone else asks, with a tone that says _fuck you_ to journalistic professionalism. Most of the Vegas-based reporters aren’t actually neutral on the Aces’ standings, even if they have to pretend to be.

“This team was never just Parson,” Hal says. The reporter next to Tomas actually scoffs. Hal goes on, “This trade lets us invest in the future, but we’ve got plenty of guys on the team right now who are motivated to play the best they can and who can put up points and take this team to the playoffs. All right, that’s it for now, guys.”

He’s gone from behind the podium before anyone can ask another question.

“Damn,” Jeremy says beside Tomas. “Looks like there was something brewing for a while there.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says absently. It’s nearing midnight. Kent must be in the air right now. “All right, man, I gotta go write… four million articles, probably.”

Jeremy laughs. “Yeah, same here. But this is what it’s about, right? This is the news taking place right in front of us.”

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “Good stuff.”

“Talk to you later,” Jeremy says, and then he disappears into the crowd.

  
         -------------  


**Scotty** @Damian_Scott · 4m

what the fuck

  
         -------------  


**Scotty [12:08 am]:** god damn

**Beck [12:09 am]:** Fucking bullshit, man

**Scotty [12:09 am]:** hey parser, did you know about this?

**Maestro [12:10 am]:** he has a no trade, he must’ve known

**Maestro [12:10 am]:** also he’s on a plane right now

**Maestro [12:11 am]:** what the hell kind of deal is this anyway

**Maestro [12:11 am]:** a pick and some 19 year old goalie from juniors?

**Scotty [12:11 am]:** I mean do you want to fucking play hockey analyst now?

**Maestro [12:12 am]:** No but I mean it’s not like it’s a good deal

**Scotty [12:12 am]:** Who the fuck cares if it’s a good fucking deal?

**Maestro [12:12 am]:** At least if they got a good deal it would make sense

**Scotty [12:12 am]:** Dude who cares if it makes sense

**Scotty [12:13 am]:** They traded my fucking linemate away

**Tower [12:14 am]:** they traded our captain

**Kelly [12:15 am]:** yeah its absurd what the fuck

**Beck [12:15 am]:** He’s not picking up his phone

**Kelly [12:15 am]:** who, parse?

**Beck [12:16 am]:** yeah

**Maestro [12:16 am]:** like I said, on a plane right now

**Tower [12:17 am]:** yeah whatever wise guy

**Scotty [12:19 am]:** Catrina just called me

**Scotty [12:19 am]:** Apparently PR doesn’t want you to say ‘fuck’ on twitter even when they just fucking traded your liney

**Kelly [12:19 am]:** Did she say anything?

**Scotty [12:20 am]:** Other than “Damian stop swearing on Twitter and delete that fucking tweet”?

**Scotty [12:20 am]:** Not really

**Scotty [12:21 am]:** She sounded pretty stressed

**Maestro [12:22 am]:** Maybe it’s just for the playoffs?

**Maestro [12:22 am]:** And he’ll sign w/ us again in July?

**Tower [12:23 am]:** dude, WE’RE going to the playoffs

**Tower [12:23 am]:** or at least we were

**Tower [12:23 am]:** why the hell would he waive his no move to go to fucking seattle instead of playing with us if he was going to come back next season

**Kelly [12:24 am]:** They must’ve told him they weren’t going to sign him again

**Maestro [12:24 am]:** Parse what the hell were you asking for? Your agent must have balls of steel if you held out on something they wouldn’t give you

**Scotty [12:25 am]:** Dude I don’t care if he asked for the fucking moon, fuck management

**Scotty [12:25 am]:** He gets them two cups, fucking model employee of the decade and they drop him?

**Swoops [12:26 am]:** Everyone go the fuck to bed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well now! What did y'all think of the trade??
> 
> For the record, the mid-game trade idea was fully stolen from what happened to Matt Duchene earlier this season (he was traded mid-game from the Avalanche to the Senators). Unlike this trade, that one immediately looked like a good deal for his old team, and it has only continued to look better for the Avalanche as time went on. This trade, on the other hand, is HORRENDOUS for the Aces. It's what they deserve.
> 
> Next week: Seattle. Let's meet the collection of lovable scamps that is my second team full of OCs.
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously on From The Ground Up: There was a trade, and the hockey world was shook. This week: Rookies, chirping, adjustments, goals, tributes, therapy, press questions, phone calls.
> 
> Thanks to C (<3) and J for beta/proofreading work.

Kent’s phone blows up with notifications the second he turns it on in the Seattle airport terminal. He ignores the Aces group chat in favor of looking at the texts he has from Tomas.

**Tomas [10:58 pm]:** Safe flight, call me when you get there

**Tomas [11:48 pm]:** You have two hashtags now

**Tomas [11:49 pm]:** #ParsonTrade and #Tradeofthecentury

**Tomas [11:49 pm]:** Highlight of your twitter career

**Tomas [12:05 am]:** Guess I should start looking at jobs in Seattle huh?

**Tomas [12:05 am]:** I know you’re on your flight and you won’t read this until later

**Tomas [12:05 am]:** but I’m really glad it’s Seattle and I love you

**Kent [1:32 am]:** <3

**Kent [1:32 am]:** just landed, love u too, call u when i get to hotel

When he’s responded to Tomas, he dares to take a peek at all the other messages, reading them as he treks down the long airport corridors to the exit.

**Swoops [11:38 pm]:** So you’re staying in the Pacific

**Swoops [11:38 pm]:** Guess that means I’m still gonna see your ugly mug on the ice at least four times a year

**Swoops [11:39 pm]:** Call me when you get a chance but also call your mom first probably

**Mom [10:04 pm]:** Hi honey! It’s on the news on my app that you’re getting traded. Are you all right? Give me a ring when you get a chance. Love you sweetie!

**Ashley [11:15 pm]:** PICK UP YOU COWARD

**Ashley [11:17 pm]:** Or call me when you land or something!! What the fuck Kent!!

**Michelle [10:30 pm]:** I have a flight to Seattle in the morning. Will text the details when I have them. We have a meeting with GM, then trainer, in late morning. I gave Conor your number.

**Michelle [10:32 pm]:** I emailed you your hotel reservation.

**Michelle [10:42 pm]:** Your new game schedule is programmed into your calendar. We’ll talk tomorrow about an apartment and moving details. Get some sleep first!

**Michelle [11:25 pm]:** My flight lands at 9:15 am. We’re meeting Small at 11:00. There’s no scheduled practice tomorrow morning so no need to be there any earlier.

**Michelle [11:36 pm]:** Call me if you run into any problems.

He’s just debating whether it’s too late to call his mom, or if he should bite the bullet and call Ashley first, when his phone buzzes with an incoming call.

It’s an unknown number, and he’s hesitant to pick up, because it could be press or someone from the Aces management that he doesn’t want to talk to at 1:30 in the morning after possibly the weirdest night of his life. But in the end, he presses ‘accept call’ and says “Hi?”

“Hey, this is Conor,” says a deep voice on the other side of the line. “Conor Hernandez. Michelle gave me your number.”

“Oh,” Kent says. “Yeah, hi.”

He probably should’ve been expecting the call, actually—he tries to talk to new Aces players as soon as he can. Or he used to, anyway, because he’s not with the Aces anymore, and by extension it means he’s not captain anymore, and this guy’s his captain now.

“You got a minute to talk? Where are you at right now?” Conor says.

“Uh, still at the airport, about to get a taxi,” Kent says, pulling his phone away from his ear for a second so he can pull up Michelle’s email and see what hotel he’s headed to.

“I can call you back tomorrow morning if it’s easier,” Conor says. “I’m guessing you want to be in bed pretty badly, but I wanted to make sure you have a place to stay. I’ve got a guest room if you need it.”

“Thanks,” Kent says. “Michelle got me a hotel somewhere, though, and she’s going to figure out an apartment—she said before that wherever I was gonna end up, she could probably sort something out pretty fast.”

“So you did know you were getting traded, huh?” Conor says.

“Uh, yeah, but not…” Kent trails off. God, he’s tired, and he’s not sure he can navigate much of a conversation right now, especially if he has to keep his story straight.

“I figured as much. Since you had a no-move clause and everything,” Conor says. “But you don’t owe me the entire story, man, it’s way too late for that. I’m glad you got a place to stay, and if Michelle is sorting something out, it’ll be fine. She’s good at that.” It’s kind of nice, knowing that this guy’s got the same agent he does. It’s good to have a connection, because he’s never really talked to Hernandez before. He’s never really talked to any of the Schooners, except for Tim Munroe, a winger who was an Aces rookie years ago, and Misha Nikolaev, who was the Pacific All-Stars goalie last month.

He waves at a taxi. “One sec,” he tells Conor, and then, “The Sheraton,” to the driver. The guy nods and steps out to put Kent’s suitcase and equipment bag in the back of the taxi. A moment later, Kent’s in the car. “Okay, I’m back,” he says into the phone.

“All right, well, we just had a game tonight, and the next one’s in two days,” Conor says.

“Did you win?” Kent asks. That’s suddenly pretty vital, because this is his team now, and if he remembers correctly, they were three points below the Aces this afternoon.

Conor chuckles. “Yeah, in the shootout. It wasn’t pretty, but it’s two points.”

“Right,” he says. “Did we—I mean. Did the Aces win theirs?” He’d caught the Leafs’ first goal from the dressing room, but after that he’d been racing to get home, pack a bag, and make his plane. By the time he’d given another thought to the guys on the ice, he’d been in the air.

“Uh… no,” Conor says. “They lost it 9-1.”

“Holy shit,” Kent says. He’s—he doesn’t know how to feel about that. “Shit,” he says again. He feels suddenly, acutely guilty for abandoning his team in the middle of a game. Sure, a bunch of them were shitty homophobes, but not _all_ of them, and he’s been keeping that team afloat for a decade now.

There’s a pause, and then Conor says, “Yeah, uh, so there’s no skate tomorrow morning, but I’m guessing a bunch of the guys will be at the rink in the late morning anyway, if you’re going to be there.”

Kent is grateful for the subject change. “Uh, yeah, I have a couple meetings in the morning.”

“Great,” Hernandez says. “Office building’s next to our practice facility, so you can come to the ice after. I’ll be there, show you around, introduce you to the guys. Again, not everyone’s gonna be there, but we can probably make sure you get some ice time with the boys who’ll be on your line. I’ll talk to Coach to see who he wants you with. Might be with Dan and Eli, but maybe he wants to try to make something work with Sam and Karl, maybe move you or Sam to the wing.”

Eli Ruther, Sam Brose and Karl Lindgren, the Schooners’ trio of upcoming talents. A nice side effect of this trade is that Kent’s suddenly back on a team with an unbelievable amount of promise for the future. “Cool,” he says.

“Oh, and my wife’s going to throw you a welcome dinner,” Hernandez says. “She does it for all the new guys. We invite everyone. Good way to get to know the team, you know? So that’ll be later this week, probably.”

“Uh, okay,” Kent says. It’s all kind of daunting, all of a sudden. “Cool. That’s, yeah, just let me know when and where to show up.”

“Will do. Get in touch if you need anything, all right?”

It’s nice, to know that someone’s got his back out there in Seattle, even if it’s just because that guy’s the captain of Kent’s new team. “Sure.”

“Good,” Hernandez says. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m guessing you want to get some sleep. I’m looking forward to seeing you on the ice, man, it’s gonna be great.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Yeah, it is. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? I’ll let you know when I’m at the rink.”

“Great. See you tomorrow,” Hernandez says, and then the call disconnects.

  
         -------------  


When he gets to his hotel, he calls Tomas and then Ashley. He’s too keyed up to sleep for a good hour and a half afterwards, but for some reason, he still wakes up at 7.

The night air had been cold when he left the airport, but he’s still unprepared for the temperature when he decides to go for a run. That’s par for the course, since he always forgets he’s not in a desert when he’s on roadies, too. He warms up quickly enough once he’s actually moving.

He finally reads the Aces group chat when he gets back inside. When he reaches the end of the messages, he realizes he’s breathing way too fast, and he’s tensed up so much his shoulder muscles hurt. He should maybe say something, but he closes the app instead and calls Khadija, to let her know what’s going on and to reschedule their next appointment. He doesn’t tell her he can’t quite catch his breath, but talking to her calms him down a little anyway. After they’ve hung up, he goes through his Instagram timeline. When it’s time to head to his new workplace, he’s still kind of nervous, but he guesses that’s normal when he’s about to meet his new team.

Michelle meets him by the entrance to the Schooners’ management office building. He can see the practice facility from here, just down the street. He wishes he could just go straight to the ice—that would mean familiarity and comfort. But there’s financial stuff to go over first. He’s glad he’ll at least have Michelle with him.

“Was the hotel all right? Did you sleep well?” Michelle says, after she’s pulled him into a quick hug.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Good.” She gets right to business, then, which is grounding. “We’re going to meet with Stephen and Daniel first—the GM and an Assistant GM,” she clarifies as she leads him through the doors and into the part of the building where the Schooners management has its offices. “Just some contract stuff. It shouldn’t take long, since it’s an existing contract that they took over. Then we’re heading over to the practice facility. I have a meeting with some of the training staff. Johnny Brits is the head trainer, and he’ll want to get a sense of your training regimen, diet, and physical issues, but you probably won’t be required to be there for all of it. Then afterwards we’re meeting with Bert.”

Bert Wayne is the coach, Kent knows. “All right,” he says, trying to keep the order of meetings in his head.

“Conor says he’s introducing you to the team afterwards, and you might even get a chance to skate today,” Michelle says, something teasing in her voice. She knows he’s not a fan of all these meetings, though really, what player is? They’re all here to play hockey, in the end.

Meeting his new GM is as uneventful as he expected. At first, they try to drag out details of why he left the Aces, but Michelle cuts them off soon enough, and they give up almost instantly. Kent suspects they don’t really want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He follows Michelle to the practice facility afterwards. There’s something disconcerting about it. Everything in these buildings is just like in Vegas—boring offices, people talking contracts, equipment managers carrying sticks and pads. But none of the faces are familiar, and there’s spearmint green everywhere instead of red and black.

They make it to the training room, where the head trainer is over in a corner talking to an assistant and a player Kent vaguely recognizes but whose name he doesn’t remember. Before he can try to fish it somewhere out of the deep recesses of his memory, he’s interrupted by a young guy sitting on a bench over in the corner.

“Oh my god,” the guy says, jumping up. “Hi!”

Michelle glances from Kent to the other player, and then nods and walks off to go talk with one of the other assistants, leaving Kent to talk to his new teammate.

“Hey,” Kent says. He takes a deep breath and pretends he isn’t nervous as hell. He knows this kid; it’s one of the Schooners rookies, maybe even one of the famous trio, but Kent draws a blank on his name. He’s about Kent’s height, maybe half an inch taller, with pale skin, dark hair, and bright eyes. Just when Kent is about to give up and ask for a name, the answer pops into his head. “Eli, right?”

The kid looks completely star-struck. Kent is used to seeing that in some of the Aces rookies, but it never stops being a little awkward and a little funny. It’s made more awkward by the fact that Kent feels like he’s buzzing out of his skin with nerves, too.

“Yeah,” Eli says. “Oh my god, this is so cool. Sorry,” he says immediately. “I don’t mean to be like, weird, it’s just, it’s weird to actually talk to you because I, like, have your poster on my wall at my parents’ house.” He slaps a hand in front of his mouth as soon as he’s said it. “Fuck, okay, that was definitely weird.”

Kent chuckles, and it eases some of the tension he’s been carrying all day. “No worries, man.”

Eli is blushing furiously now, glancing around the trainer’s room. “I’m glad nobody else was here to hear that, or I’d never live it down.”

“Oh, you think I’ll let you live it down?” Kent says.

Eli shakes his head, but he’s laughing a little. “I guess that serves me right. Hey, but welcome to Seattle, I’m so stoked you’re playing with us.”

“Well, you’d better be, if you’ve got a poster of me,” Kent says, because he can’t resist. He knows how to do this. Some things are the same in every locker room, and chirping rookies is one of them.

“Oh my god,” Eli says. “I’m—”

He’s interrupted by Conor Hernandez slapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, Eli, excited to meet your hero?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Eli groans. “Just for the record, I was already doing a good job of embarrassing myself, so I don’t think I need your help.”

Kent is outright laughing now. “Hey man,” he says between chuckles, holding out his hand for Conor, who shakes it. “Good to meet you.”

“You too,” Conor says. “Welcome to the team. Want me to show you around?”

Kent glances over at the other side of the room, where Michelle is talking to the head trainer now. “I think I gotta be over there first,” he says, but then Michelle looks over and waves him away.

“Go ahead, I’ll handle it here,” she calls.

Kent follows Conor and Eli out the room and ignores the way his heartbeat picks up, now that he’s no longer with Michelle.

He suspects Eli was in the trainers’ room for a reason and isn’t supposed to be tagging along, but he doesn’t bring that up. It’s not like he didn’t have players he looked up to, back when he was a rookie.

“All right, so about half the team is here,” Conor says over his shoulder as he leads the way. “There’s a couple guys on the ice and a couple others getting in a workout who should be on the ice later. I think all of the young ones are here today. You’ve already met this little guy, of course,” he says, pulling Eli close to ruffle his hair.

“Okay, Jens and Joey are both younger than me,” Eli says, in the kind of tone that suggests he’s said it a thousand times before.

Conor just ruffles his hair again. “Sure, kid. Okay, so management and PR are over in the building next door. I suppose you’ve already talked to Stephen?” At Kent’s nod, he goes on, “Good, so you know where to find him. I guess the PR people will get in touch tomorrow to sink their claws into you for promotion purposes, so you’ll know where they’re at. Locker room’s this way—Johnny’s probably going to set you up with a stall later or get one of his lackeys to do it.”

He keeps narrating as they go, with Eli throwing in the occasional comment. Before Kent knows it, they’ve made a circle through the facilities and are back at the locker room. Conor gestures at the duffel Kent’s been carrying with his gear. “Wanna lace up?”

Eli looks positively ecstatic at the thought of getting to skate with Kent. He’d better get used to it, if they’re going to end up on a line together. Kent should probably head back to the trainer’s room, see if Michelle needs him, but he honestly wants nothing more than to get on the ice. Ice is the same in every rink.

“Yeah,” he says. “Always.”

Conor grins at him. Kent grins back, and then they troop into the locker room to gear up. It’s weird to put on a Schooners practice jersey instead of an Aces one. Before long, he’s taped up his stick and he’s following Eli and Conor down yet another hallway.

The sound of skates on ice, pucks against sticks, and shouting players reaches him before anything else does. The voices are different, but Kent still feels like it’s grounding.

“I bring fresh meat!” Conor hollers as he hits the ice just ahead of Kent.

The first stride on the ice settles something inside him. He feels safer here, even though it takes less than a minute for him to be surrounded by a cluster of sweat-soaked players shaking his hand. It’s kind of unexpected that he’d feel better already. He doesn’t even know yet if he’s really any safer here than in Vegas.

“Sam Brose,” says one of the young players as he shakes Kent’s hand, and Kent definitely knew _that_. Sam was drafted by the Schooners two years ago—the first Black player to be selected first. Now he’s the symbol of the young new team that the Schooners are rebuilding themselves into. He ran away with the Calder last year, and Kent has lost count of how often he’s heard Brose’s name mentioned together with McDavid and Matthews. Kent remembers what that pressure is like, but Sam doesn’t seem stressed out at all—at least outwardly, he’s calm and collected.

“We call him Bro,” says one of the others—“Gary Pickering, but they call me Picks”—as he slaps Sam on the back.

“Unfortunately,” Sam says drily. Kent chuckles and hears his laughter echoed by a couple of the others.

“All right, so Coach is putting you at center on one of the first two lines, but we’ll probably see what works in practice tomorrow,” Conor says. “Normally Sam’s got Jerome on one wing—but Jerome isn’t here today—and he’s got Karl on the other. Carlos, get over here,” he shouts in the direction of one of the goals, where two guys are still taking shots at a goalie.

The cluster breaks up and one of them skates to the larger group surrounding Kent.

“This is Carlos,” Conor says, as the guy comes to a stop with a spray of snow. Kent knows this one too—the third of the trio, tall and lanky, blond with vivid blue eyes.

“Karl Lindgren,” the guy says as he shakes Kent’s hand. “But also Carlos, as you can hear.” Kent likes his accent, which, at a guess, is probably something Scandinavian.

“Great,” Conor says. “If you end up on the other line, that’s with Eli—” He ruffles Eli’s hair before Eli can duck away. “And with Dan.”

“Hi, I’m Dan,” says a guy who is maybe a year or two older than Kent. He shakes off his glove so he can clasp Kent’s hand. He’s at least six inches taller than Kent and probably a couple dozen pounds heavier. Weirdly, it puts Kent at ease, maybe because Dan is similar to Swoops in build.

Conor looks around the little circle. “All right. Who’s up for a scrimmage?”

As it turns out, there’s only one goalie, so Conor ends up being handed goalie pads and taking the other goal while one of the assistant coaches divides the rest of the group up into two sets of five. Kent gets put on a line with Eli and Karl for now, and Dan and another left winger end up playing with Sam. Kent’s line gets paired with the fourth-line center as one of their D-men, because not enough of the defense section is at the rink.

As soon as they start playing, it feels like Kent lands back in his body properly. It’s satisfying as always to scope out what his lineys’ movements are projecting and anticipate it, so he’s in the right place to receive a pass and slapshot it behind the goalie. He doesn’t need to be at his very best—this is just about getting to know his new teammates—so he can just try some plays, get a sense of people’s playing styles. And he never feels more settled than when he’s playing. It’s a relief and a joy to find out that’s true even in a new setting.

It’s not an official practice, so the assistant coach doesn’t intervene and they just play. Shouts ring out across the ice as the other guys instruct each other on plays and strategies. There aren’t enough players to switch out lines, so the assistant coach calls out stoppages whenever people get too out of breath.

Eli can predict Kent’s movements better than Beck, even though it’s the first time they’re playing together. He’s only been in the NHL for a month or two, but Kent can’t imagine how he didn’t make it straight out of camp if he’s got this much sense of the game. On the third or fourth play, Kent steals the puck from Picks, circles around his own net, then heads up the ice. He passes to Eli and sprints ahead past a defender. For a moment, he thinks Eli might not see the play and might pass to Dan instead, but Eli is two steps ahead of him—he fakes a shot at the net instead, slaps the puck at Kent, and Kent knocks it past the glove of Hjalmar Ruud, the second-string goalie.

“Well, damn,” Ruud grumbles, as Eli sprints up to Kent and then pulls short as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to hug him. Kent doesn’t know if that’s because they’re in a scrimmage or because of Eli’s level of hero worship, but he drags the guy in and knocks their helmeted heads together.

“That was a damn good fake-out, kid,” he says, and Eli just grins at him speechlessly.

The Schooners don’t have the Aces’ reputation for playing rough, and he can tell the difference even in a practice, in when people decide to check and how far they’re willing to bend the rules to get the puck. Kent’s definitely the dirtiest player on the ice here, but he reels in his worst instincts and he doesn’t think he’s too far out of tune with the rest of the team, especially for a first go.

Nobody’s keeping score in shots or goals for the impromptu match-up, though even without that, Kent can tell that Sam’s line is definitely giving his line a run for their money.

When the assistant coach calls play to an end, he throws a thumbs-up in Kent’s direction.

“Damn,” Sam says, panting as he comes to a halt next to Kent and Dan. “That’s some good shit, man.”

“Totally,” Kent agrees. He’s still breathing heavily, but he feels much calmer than before he got a chance to play. It must’ve been well over an hour since he first ran into Eli. He’s spent all that time with his new teammates and nothing terrible has happened. The amount of surprise he feels about that, tells him he’s been gearing up for something far worse.

“Hey, uh, Parson, I mean Parse, do you think you can help me with my slapshot?” Eli says, coming to a stop beside them. “Yours is incredible, and I can never get as much power as I want on mine.”

Kent finds, all of a sudden, that he can’t stand to hear this fresh-faced kid call him the same thing he kept hearing in the Aces locker room. “Call me Kent,” he says. “And yeah, sure, but it depends on your stick as much as your technique, what’s the flex on yours?”

“Already moved on from hero worship to dragging his secrets out of him, Eli?” Dan says.

“Thanks, Dan,” Eli says with a sigh, his bright blush already back. Kent doesn’t envy the kid; he’s way too easy to chirp when he responds like this. But he doesn’t think Eli really minds, deep down.

Dan laughs at him and claps him on the shoulder. “Better leave Kent alone for now, buddy. I think he’s probably got more to do. Getting traded is always a hassle, eh?” He aims the last bit at Kent.

Kent has no idea how long he’s been on the ice, but he suspects he was supposed to be back in the trainer’s room an hour ago. “Yeah, no kidding. I should head off,” he says. He turns and winks at Eli. “Slapshots next time, all right?”

Eli manages a nod, and Kent turns and skates off. He suddenly can’t wait to call Tomas and tell him all about his day.

  
         -------------

Tomas yawns and takes another sip of coffee. He’s lost count of how many cups he’s had today. He hadn’t slept till 4 am, and then he had to get up at 7:30 because it was all hands on deck in the Aces PR department. It’s a game day, too—tonight’s the second half of a back-to-back—so he won’t be having an early night either. His only solace is that all of his colleagues look at least as sleep-deprived as he does.

He had a PR meeting first thing in the morning, and then he punched out an article on the many and varied accomplishments of Anders Adolfsson, the Aces’ new acquisition. It wasn’t easy, because the guy hasn’t amounted to much more than a fairly promising season-and-a-half in the WHL since the Schooners drafted him. There’s another article waiting to be written on the Aces draft pick situation this summer. Objectively, the situation is bad, and only barely improved by an additional third round pick. Catrina had told him to make it sound “like someone in management knows what the fuck they’re doing”.

He can probably get away with writing that one from home, where he won’t have to look at his colleagues’ moody faces. He’s grumpy himself, from lack of sleep and from the annoying task of having to spin last night’s trade. But he’s also thinking about how the temperature in Seattle occasionally dips below freezing, and how a half dozen of Schooners players went to Pride last summer, and how easy it’ll be to make a trip from Seattle to Vancouver, where two of his college friends live these days. And whenever he thinks of any of that, he finds himself smiling, no matter how tired he is.

Before he can go home to write that article, though, there’s morning skate. He finds Leah already looking out over the practice rink, tweeting out the Aces practice lines. That’s going to be relevant for Tomas, too, since he suspects he’ll be asked later to write an article speculating on the Aces lineup without Kent.

“Hey,” Leah says when he sits down next to her and pulls out his MacBook to take notes. She looks much more chipper than she has any right to, since he doubts she had a full night’s sleep either.

“Hey. What’s the line rushes?” He takes another sip of coffee and sets his travel mug down.

“Looks like Birds at first center,” Leah says.

Tomas raises an eyebrow and looks dubiously at the ice. Biryukov famously doesn’t play well with Scotty, but then putting Carly at first center is probably also a bad idea. There’s really not a good solution to a sudden absence of their star forward, especially not in the long term.

They watch quietly as the Aces run drills, Leah tweeting out a couple more observations, Tomas making notes for his game preview and the interviews he’s going to have in a moment. Practice is short, and before he knows it, Tomas is stepping into the locker room for interviews. He and Leah are joined by several more of the usual gang of reporters.

It’s weird not to have Kent there. Tomas can’t quite put his finger on it. Kent wasn’t always available for interviews, and often enough he was showering or already headed out for a workout, and Tomas wouldn’t see him at any point during morning skate press. But he _knows,_ this time, that Kent is a plane ride away from him, not just somewhere else in the building. He misses him already, but the knowledge also brings that same excitement from earlier. It won’t be long until Tomas is a plane ride away from this place, too.

The atmosphere in the locker room still resembles a funeral. Sims, Esko and Hofmeister give them obviously-rehearsed soundbites and won’t say more than five words each about Kent—“Shame to see him go”, “Trades are part of hockey”, “It was unexpected, I guess”.

When they’re done and Tomas turns to leave, he runs into Kimmy, just heading to his stall. Kimmy shoves him and bites out, “Get your hands off me,” grumbling something that sounds like “disgusting” under his breath as he turns away.

Tomas clenches his fists. Just another month till the end of the season, and odds are the Aces won’t make it to the playoffs without Kent. There’s only about two dozen game and practice days separating him from never having to interview Kimmy again.

He texts Kent as he walks to his car, but there’s no immediate response. Kent is probably still in meetings, or maybe having his first practice. Once he’s behind the wheel, Tomas puts his phone on speaker and—with a twinge of dread—calls Émilie instead.

She picks up on the second ring and wastes no time. “ _Fucking finally! I’ve tried to call you like three times!”_

Tomas winces. _“Ha, yeah, sorry. It’s been a little wild around here_.”

_“No shit! Tell me everything.”_

_“You’re not at work?”_ Tomas pulls out of the practice rink’s parking lot and onto the road.

Émilie laughs, _“I think I can make time for this. This is all anyone at work is talking about anyway. What the hell’s going on?”_

_“Everything off the record,”_ he warns, even though he knows she knows.

_“Yeah dude, obviously,”_ she says impatiently, “ _Did you know he was getting traded? Did_ he _know he was getting traded? He must have, right? No-move and all…”_

_“He knew,”_ Tomas agrees. _“It was actually Kent’s request.”_

Every time he talks to Émilie, more and more each time, Tomas feels a deep painful twist in his gut whenever he mentions Kent. Like talking to her about Kent is a betrayal of Kent’s trust; as though with every detail he shares, Tomas is personally adding to Kent’s already burdensome anxiety. All the same, Tomas can hear the disappointment, the concern, in Émilie’s voice when he shuts her out. And that hurts too.

He hears it now, when she replies, confused and surprised. _“Yeah, I mean that’s what everyone’s figuring… but why though? Did they refuse to pay through the nose on his next contract?”_

It’s probably for the best that this is the general assumption, but Tomas hates how it paints Kent, when Kent really doesn’t care all that much about how much he’s signed for. When Kent would’ve given up half his pay if it had meant his teammates wouldn’t treat him like shit without even knowing it.

_“No,”_ he says, his voice coming out sharper than he intends. _“Nothing like that. They weren’t even in contract negotiations. It’s—”_ He breaks off, the familiar guilt tightening in his stomach. He wants so much to explain, to have Émilie to bounce all of this off of. But then he remembers Kent, ashen and struggling to breathe through his anxiety. _“It was personal,”_ Tomas continues. _“He had—There were issues with management.”_

_“Huh, okay. Was he that much of a diva?”_

He knows Émilie is joking, but god damnit, he’s running on three hours of sleep and the knowledge that he’s moving 1500 kilometers this summer. _“No,”_ he snaps, _“the Aces were that much of a shithole.”_

There’s a beat of silence. He already regrets his outburst, when Émilie replies with a faint, “ _Dude, what the hell?”_

_“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. This has been in the works for a while and I’ve been… stressed. I’m uhh… I’m moving to Seattle with him.”_ It’s the first time he’s talked about this with anyone except Kent. Saying it now, to Émilie, makes the whole thing feel real in a way Tomas hadn’t been prepared for.

“ _Oh, wow.”_ The silence stretches for just long enough that Tomas starts to think the call might have dropped when she continues, _“So you… wow.”_

Tomas has no idea what to do with that reply. He can’t get a read on her tone, on what she might think about this at all. _“Yeah, so it’s been kind of a lot.”_

_“I… yeah, I bet.”_ She pauses. “ _Tommy, are you okay?”_

The use of his nickname throws him off. She hasn’t called him that in years, but she sounds so quiet now, so concerned, that it sends an unexpected lump to his throat. How can he tell her that he’s happier than he’s been in years? Even despite all the uncertainty, the Aces’ shittiness, Kent’s struggles, all of it. _“Yeah, Em. I’m really, really good. Don’t worry.”_

_“Yeah?”_ And Émilie still sounds off, her voice high and tight, _“Because, I mean. Management was so shit that Kent orchestrated one of the most ridiculous trades we’ve seen in years. And I know you know more about this than you’re telling me. I mean… You’ve known about this for a while, you said. And you’re… you… you didn’t tell me when you guys became close, and you barely talk about him. I thought you were just dating, I didn’t even realize it was that serious, but now you’re moving to be with him? And you didn’t tell me about any of this, and you… I feel like I haven’t talked to you in—”_ She breaks off. And she doesn’t sound angry, she sounds hurt. And fuck if that isn’t much, much worse.

_“Em—”_ He wants to explain, but he can’t, he _won’t,_ risk Kent’s mental health when he’s finally starting to do better. _“I’m sorry.”_

Émilie clears her throat. _“I gotta go, I need to—”_

_“Sure, of course. I can call you later—”_ But she’s already hung up.

Tomas stares at the wide blue expanse of the sky above his apartment building for a moment before he switches off his engine and goes inside.

  
         -------------

Kent sips his glass of juice as he listens to Skype’s ‘connecting’ noises. After a moment, Khadija appears on his screen. Her hijab is green today, almost the same green as the new Schooners jersey that an assistant equipment manager hung in his stall this morning. He’s sure that’s a coincidence, but it’s still nice.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi, Kent. How are you?”

He had his first official practice this morning.

He got through everything that was off-ice more or less on autopilot. He chirped his new teammates in a new locker room, faced unfamiliar reporters that the other guys were clearly friendly with, talked to his coach about which line he’d be put on, told the trainers about his normal exercise regimen. It had gone fine. He thinks it had gone fine. Even though he’s been back at his hotel for an hour now, and he’s just been watching TV, it still feels like this is the first moment he can really take stock of how he’s feeling.

“Tired,” he says after a moment.

“I can imagine.” She smiles at him encouragingly.

“It’s… It’s good, so far,” he says. “It’s… I don’t know, though. I feel like I’m waiting for it to go wrong. For one of them… One of my new teammates to yell ‘fag’ at someone in the locker room. Or say he’s invited to his sister’s girlfriend’s graduation and how gross that is. Or—I don’t know. I don’t—What if I did all this for nothing?”

Khadija looks thoughtful. “Do you remember what we said, about homophobia on your new team?”

He plucks at the hotel sheets he’s sitting on. “That this is a trial period and I’m not stuck here for the rest of my career. That they might not be perfect, but Michelle scoped them out and they’re bound to be better than Vegas. That they don’t _have_ to be perfect for me to be able to deal.” It actually helps, to go over those sentences in his head. “Okay,” he says, breathing out slowly. “Yeah, okay.”

Khadija nods at him. “Good,” she says. “Would you like to tell me about your new teammates?”

  
         -------------

 

Kent gets his first point with the Schooners three minutes into the first game he ever plays with them. It’s a home game, and the rink feels different, but the ice feels the same as it did in Vegas. They’re playing the Senators. Kent lost the opening faceoff and didn’t connect with Eli and Dan on their first shift—a missed pass, Dan in the wrong place, and it was nothing terrible but it just didn’t quite come together. The second his skates hit the ice for the second shift, something clicks.

Eli gets the puck from one of their defensemen, crosses over center ice and passes to Kent, who takes it over the blue line. Both Ottawa D-men are on his heels as he circles the goal, so he gets the puck back to Eli in the right faceoff circle.

The defensemen leave Kent just a little too much space as they move in to cover the goal. Eli’s gaze darts from Dan to Kent. He makes a little side-step as if he’s going to pass to Kent but then passes to Dan instead. Dan redirects the puck off the blade of his stick so it slides over to where Kent is, beside the goal post, and Kent chucks it right between Anderson’s incoming pad and the goalpost.

The buzzer rings out and lights flash as Kent catches an incoming Dan in his arms. “Yeah!” Eli shouts as he almost knocks them over. He throws his arms around both of them. “Hell yeah!” 

Kent grins at them, then at the screen that’s replaying this fucking gorgeous display of teamwork, where everyone was in the right place to send the other team scrambling. He’s pretty sure the hockey world isn’t going to talk about anything else tonight, even if they end up losing.

He skates to the bench to touch gloves with his teammates, who are all grinning at him. Bert, the coach, gives him a little nod before putting his grim game face back on.

Kent skates back to the faceoff circle and grins at the Senator across from him. The guy scowls and loses the faceoff, and then Kent is off again, and it feels fucking amazing.

  
         -------------  


**Audrey Pine** @Audrey_101 · 3h

Oh my god what a goooorgeous goal

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

GOAL!! @kvparson90 gets his first goal with the Schooners off assists from @Danhockeyman and @EliRuther98

 

**Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 3h

Discuss: We might be looking at the new best line in the NHL.

 

**Tommy Black** @Sportsfan647 · 3h

I’m crying just a little bit. Why did we trade this guy again???

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 49m

We win it 4-2 with three goals from the Ruther-Parson-Hendricks line. Point and assist for @kvparson90!

 

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 2m

hey @danhockeyman & @eliruther98 i think i like my new line how bout u

  
         -------------

 

“No, I liked my assist better,” Kent says. He plucks at the arm of his couch and glances around his new apartment. There’s still boxes everywhere, but it’s nice not to live in a hotel anymore. He does enough of that on roadies. This place is less ritzy than his Vegas one, but Michelle coordinated getting his stuff here, so at least it feels a little bit like home. Someone is coming by to unpack the rest of it while Kent is at practice. That’s good, because Kent really doesn’t want to do it.

“Yeah?” Tomas says in his ear. He sounds a little slow, which makes sense because it’s morning. He doubts Tomas’ caffeine has properly kicked in yet. Kent had been planning to call him last night, but his teammates wanted to go out and celebrate Kent’s first game with them, so they agreed to call before Kent’s practice instead.

“Yeah, so, I mean obviously the goal was awesome,” Kent says. He glances at the counter, where the puck from his first Schooners goal last night sits wrapped in white tape. “But honestly, I mean, anyone could’ve knocked that in; Dan’s pass was fantastic so I didn’t really have to do much. My pass on Eli’s goal was way nicer than that tip-in.”

Tomas laughs. “It was a really nice assist,” he acknowledges. “How’s Kit doing?”

“Still hiding,” Kent says. He glances at the cat tree in the corner, sadly empty. Kit is probably underneath his bed, or else she’s somewhere in the stack of moving boxes. “But it’s only been a day. She’s probably pretty mad at me for ripping her out of her lovely house and putting her in this weird apartment where there aren’t even any nice shelves for climbing. But she’ll come around, poor baby. How’s your day looking?”

“Yeah, all right,” Tomas says. “Reporting on practice in an hour or so, then I have some meetings afterward. And I’m going out with a couple colleagues after work. It’s been a wild couple days here, obviously, so everyone felt like they could use a drink.”

The Aces have lost three straight since Kent left—against the Leafs, and then against the Flames the next day, and then against the Stars last night while Kent played his first Schooners game. That means the Flames have overtaken them, and the Schooners have as many points with three games in hand. Everyone’s predictions of the Aces losing their playoffs spot through Kent’s trade have come true within seventy-two hours.

“I’ve made your job suck, huh?” Kent says. He feels bad, though he knows why he made his choice.

Tomas huffs out a laugh. “It’s fine. My blog is 50% Habs; I know how to report on a losing team.”

“Yeah, I saw they got shut out last night by—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tomas interrupts testily, and yeah, he’s definitely not sufficiently caffeinated. Kent can picture his grumpy morning expression. It makes him smile.

He knows plenty about being a sore loser, so he resists the urge to chirp him. “Sorry, babe,” he says. “Remember when they beat the Canes 6-0 last week?”

“You always know how to cheer me up.” Tomas sounds sarcastic, but also definitely less grumpy than half a minute ago.

“Love you,” Kent says. He’s been saying it since the night he got traded. It fills him with happiness every time, even before Tomas invariably says it back.

“You too,” Tomas says. “I should go, prep for post-practice interviews. And I still need to watch last night’s highlights.”

“Yeah, cool,” Kent says. “I’m gonna head to the rink.”

Once they’ve hung up, he goes to check if Kit really is under the bed. When he bends down, he finds her staring at him judgmentally. He tosses a couple of her favorite treats to appease her, but she refuses to come out. “Don’t worry,” he says, straightening up so he can get changed to go to practice. “You’ll learn to like it here.”

  
         -------------

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2d

The Hurricanes are visiting us today!

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2d

Hurricanes go empty net with two minutes to go…

|

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2d

And they score :(

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2d

Third period ends at 2-2 after that late goal, so let’s do some overtime!

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2d

Sebastian Aho scores the overtime winner for the Canes.

  
         -------------

 

**Kent [10:15 pm]:** hey i kno ur at the rink but call me when u get home?

**Tomas [10:27 pm]:** About to upload my recap and heading home after. You okay?

**Kent [10:29 pm]:** honest answer?

**Tomas [10:30 pm]:** Ideally, yeah

**Kent [10:31 pm]:** panic attack

**Kent [10:31 pm]:** im fine tho

**Kent [10:31 pm]:** nothing happened

**Kent [10:31 pm]:** to set it off i mean

**Kent [10:31 pm]:** just sth on tv

**Kent [10:31 pm]:** which i guess is bettr than if sth had happened but idk

**Kent [10:32 pm]:** anyway im fine jst wna hear ur voice

**Tomas [10:32 pm]:** Give me five minutes and I’ll call you, mon minou

**Kent [10:33 pm]:** <3

  
         -------------

 

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

Our roadie continues! After Tuesday’s win in Anaheim, the guys have arrived in Vegas, and they’re taking on the Aces tonight!

 

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 2h

Although there’s still about a dozen games to go, this one seems must-win for the Aces. Once again tied in points with the Schooners for second wildcard spot, Schooners with two games in hand.

|

**Leah Nelson** @LeahNelsonLVN · 2h

Severs says first line tonight will be Newton-Carlton-Scott. Playing with Biryukov on the first line over the past five games, Newton and Scott have only scored one point each. Carlton has been more effective on that line in the past.

  
         -------------

 

It’s a little bizarre to be in the Aces rink but in the wrong locker room and with a completely different team. Eli asked him, on the plane, what it was like to go back to play in Vegas. Kent hadn’t really known what to say, so he’d just made a joke about having missed the heat, and then that had sparked a conversation with a couple of the Swedish and Canadian guys about whether Seattle qualified as having real winters.

He talked to Khadija this afternoon—in her office again, instead of over Skype—about how he expected it to be hard to go back. But this isn’t his locker room, and he hasn’t run into any of his old teammates. He hasn’t actually spoken with any of them since the trade except for Swoops. A couple of the others have texted him, but he’s ignored them and let them think of it what they will.

There’s almost an hour left before the game. He’s had his workout and he’s already taped his sticks. He doesn’t normally look at his phone anymore this close to the game, but now he reaches into his bag to pull it out.

**Tomas [6:03 pm]:** Can’t wait to see you tonight

**Tomas [6:04 pm]:** Good luck, go Schooners!

He’d been wondering where Tomas’ good luck message was, earlier in the day. He smiles as he types his response.

**Kent [6:34 pm]:** thnx babe

His sister has left him her good luck text, too, but he never responds to those until after the game. He switches to the Aces group chat, which he’s occasionally scrolled through in the last two weeks. There’s no recent messages—there never are, before a game. When he scrolls up, it’s just the usual chirps and digs at each other. The last time someone mentioned him (“Hey Parse, you still alive in Seattle?”) is a couple of days ago.

He glances around the locker room. Most of the guys are still at the gym. Over Picks’ choice of hiphop for today, Kent can hear the shouts from a few of them who are horsing around with a soccer ball in the hallway. Karl’s lacing up in a corner, trying to tie up his skate with one hand because he’s texting with the other. There’s a dopey smile on his face, so it’s probably his girlfriend, who he brought to last week’s welcome dinner at Conor’s house. Matt, Tim and Picks are laughing at something Matt’s showing them on his phone, Tim with one skate on and the other still waiting to be laced up.

Kent taps his finger against the side of his phone.

**Kent [6:39 pm]:** its been real guys

**Kent [6:39 pm]:** bring it on

He thumbs at the screen for a moment, then flicks to the group chat options screen and presses ‘exit’.

**-Kent has left the group chat-**

**[you are no longer in this group and will not receive any more messages]**

“Hey, Kent, check this out,” Picks says, gesturing at Matt’s phone.

Kent takes a deep breath and slides his phone back into his bag.

He doesn’t actually get to see what Picks wants him to check out, because a dozen reporters pile into the locker room right as he gets up, and they make a predictable beeline for Kent. He’s glad he’s already finished gearing up, because they’ll probably want to grill him until he gets on the ice.

Tomas is there, looking professional and focused. When their eyes meet, his lips quirk up in a tiny smile. Kent has missed him—hadn’t realized just how much he’d missed him until he saw him. But he has work to do. There’s just time to take another deep breath before the first question. “Hey, Kent,” says the first reporter, a guy from Las Vegas Now whom Kent has known for years. “What’s it like being back in Vegas?”

It’s the obvious first question. Despite everything, it’s not hard to paste on his media smile and answer. “It’ll be different on the other side of the ice,” he says. “But in the end, hockey is hockey, and I’m here to play, and it’s just the next game that we’re here to win so we can make it to the playoffs. It’s also nice to see the sun again.”

There’s a brief titter from the group of reporters. He flashes them a smirk and makes sure not to look at Tomas. There’ll be time enough to do that after the game. “How do you feel about your trade to the Schooners?” someone else asks, as if he hasn’t answered that question fifty times in the past two weeks. The frequency with which it’s asked was just beginning to decrease, but apparently here in Vegas it’s fair game again.

“Trades are part of hockey,” he says. “It’s a shift, but the Schooners are a great team and I’m excited to work with the rest of the guys.”

“Do you think you’re at an advantage, since you know the Aces’ playing style?” This is one of the Schooners’ people, he thinks, though he forgets what her name is.

He ponders the question for a moment. This morning, when they were going over Aces tape with the team, he was definitely the guy who gave most of the pointers. “Every team strategizes for every game, adjusts their style to what they expect from the other team,” he says. “I know how the Aces play, but they know my style just as well, so if there’s any advantage I suppose it goes both ways. But that’s not the only thing that goes into a game.”

The next reporter is from ESPN, he thinks—they don’t show up to every game, but _Kent Parson Back In Vegas for First Post-Trade Game_ is clearly a story nobody wants to miss out on. The guy shoves his microphone a little too close to Kent’s face for comfort and says, “Do you think the Aces recent losses are due to the fact that they traded you?”

Honestly, what does this guy think he’s going to say? That yeah, the fact that the Aces are 1-4-1 since the trade is probably because Kent fucked off to Seattle? There are sighs from some of the other reporters, who clearly aren’t wild about this question either. Kent keeps his face straight and says, “I’m here today to play for the Schooners and give it my best, regardless of the outcomes of the Aces’ most recent games.”

“They’ve had five losses in six games,” the reporter says doggedly. The woman beside him elbows him in the ribs, and the guy throws her a dark look.

“I don’t play for the Aces,” Kent says, a little more sharply. He keeps himself in check, though, because if he gets angry at a reporter about this, that’s going to be the angle of every person in the room in their postgame stories. He takes a deep breath. “I’m not with the Aces. I don’t think it’s my place to comment on their games. Other than the one I’m playing in an hour, obviously, which we plan to win.” He flashes his smirk at the reporters again. The guy who asked the last question shuts up, and the rest of the questions are easier. Tomas doesn’t ask him anything, which is probably for the best, though Kent still feels dissatisfied when he disappears with the other reporters and they haven’t exchanged a word. He grabs his phone again to look at Tomas’ texts from earlier.

Before he knows it, he’s stepped onto the ice in the T-Mobile Arena. The crowd is loud, and it takes him a moment to realize why that’s unusual—they usually cheer like this when he steps on the ice, but he’s not usually with the away team.

The roar of the crowd picks up when the announcer says his name, and it’s—It’s weird. He’s glad the anthem starts only a moment later, and then a moment after that, he’s in the faceoff circle. It’s Birds who takes the faceoff against him. He takes a second to wonder if that’s because they know Birds is their only player who has an over-50% faceoff record against him.

Then the puck drops, and he wins the faceoff anyway. It’s just hockey after that.

They’re up 2-0 when the buzzer sounds for the end of the first period. Their fourth line scored the first goal, and Kent scored the second. He fist bumps Eli and claps Jens on the back as they file into the locker room. “Nice assist, man,” he tells Jens.

Jens grins at him—he’s put up great points for a fourth-line winger since coming up from the AHL, but it’s not an everyday occurrence and the praise from Kent clearly means a lot.

There’s a brief huddle in the locker room as Bert tells them to keep it up and gives some instructions on how to manage the Aces’ third line, which has been giving them more trouble than they expected. Then they disperse to drink water and catch their breaths. Kent fully expects to be called out for an interview, but instead their PR manager sends out Picks, who scored the first goal.

It leaves Kent to catch his breath and wonder how he’s not more freaked out by the fact that he’s back in his old stadium, that he’s scoring against people who were his teammates and friends two weeks ago.

They’re back out before he knows it. “Brose, your line on the ice,” Bert says, and Jerome, Sam, and Karl skate out.

Kent’s about to settle on the bench when Bert stops him with a hand on his chest. Kent’s just about to ask if there’s a problem when the lights in the stadium go dim and the announcer says, “And now, the Aces give tribute to Kent Parson!”

He thinks dimly that he absolutely should’ve seen that coming, because he skated with the team for ten damn years and they’ve given players tribute for less. But with all his nerves about coming back here, and with how he left on bad terms with management, he just hadn’t given it any thought.

Conor is suddenly behind him, squeezing his shoulder and then pushing him forward. The roar in the crowd picks up as he skates to center ice. Then the lights go completely, except for a spotlight right on him. The screen lights up, a shot of Kent skating onto the ice in Aces gear accompanied by booming music.

_Just keep a straight face_ , he tells himself, and he thinks he mostly manages, even when the video shifts to him shaking hands with fans, signing autographs. Then it’s back to hockey—a pass from Scotty that he puts away topshelf, an odd-man rush in which he dekes a goalie and sinks the puck into the goal. The crowd is still cheering, as loud as the deafening music that accompanies the piece, and it’s… Even if he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of Vegas, in the end, it was never the _fans_ that he had a problem with.

He has to bite his lip when the next bit is him coaching, on the ice with his girls’ team, with one of the girls coming up to give him a hug. After that, the reel switches to another goal, one he recognizes instantly—third period in Game 7 of the 2015 Stanley Cup Final, the game-winning goal that got him his second cup. And that’s what the reel ends on: him in the center of the Las Vegas rink, hoisting the Cup over his head, his face flushed and sweaty and grinning.

The crowd is louder than he’s ever heard it as the screen goes black and then lights up again with the words _Welcome Back, Kent Parson_.

Then he’s just standing there while the crowd cheers, and he has to swallow back the lump that’s in his throat. The fans in Seattle cheered him on as loudly as they could, his first game there, but this is _his_ crowd—people he’s talked to, kids he’s coached, young adults who stuck with hockey because he tossed a puck at them when they were twelve and came to their first hockey game.

He takes a deep breath and raises his stick at the crowd, spinning in a circle so everyone can see, can feel like he might be looking at them. He’s goddamn grateful for all of these people.

It feels like minutes before the crowd quiets down, though it’s probably not that long. He’s profoundly glad he’s not up for the faceoff in second period, so he gets to skate back to the bench.

“Damn,” Tim says when Kent slides in next to him. “They love you over here.”

Those words ring true enough that he has to wipe his eyes after all. He’s on camera now, his face blown up on the screen for everyone to see, and the crowd responds by getting on their feet, the noise back to deafening levels.

At least he’s not mic’ed up, so when he says, “Fuck,”—with his hand in front of his mouth, because cameras catch everything and some people can read lips—Tim and Picks are the only ones who hear.

“My shoulder’s here if you wanna cry on it, man,” Picks says, but he’s smiling a little too kindly for the chirp to really land.

“Piss all the way off,” Kent says anyway. It’s a little bit easier to breathe, now, without feeling like he’s going to actually burst into tears.

The crowd has finally quieted down, and the game starts up again a minute later. With the cameras blessedly focused somewhere else, he gets a chance to take some deep breaths and focus back on the actual game he’s here to play.

It ends up a shutout. Kent doesn’t score again, but Dan and Eli both do: Dan with an assist from Eli, and Eli with an assist from Kent. The post-game press questions he gets from Aces PR and Vegas reporters are pretty subdued.

He gets changed as fast as he can, once the press has shuffled out of the locker room. He should probably do a post-game workout, but…

“Got somewhere to be?” Conor asks, and Kent gets a swoop of anxiety in his stomach but manages to push through within a second or two.

“Yeah, meeting a friend,” he says.

None of the guys around are surprised to hear it, though they’d be more surprised if they knew Tomas isn’t exactly a _friend_. It’s less than half an hour after the game when he’s ready to go.

**Kent [11:02 pm]:** hows it going

**Tomas [11:03 pm]:** Just done with post-game

**Tomas [11:03 pm]:** Meet me at my car?

**Kent [11:04 pm]:** do i wnt to be seen in ur monstrosity

**Tomas [11:05 pm]:** I parked in the back for a reason

**Kent [11:06 pm]:** ur the best

**Kent [11:06 pm]:** no pda even tho i cant wait to kiss u

**Tomas [11:07 pm]:** I know

**Tomas [11:07 pm]:** Can’t wait either

**Tomas [11:07 pm]:** Thirty minutes from now we’ll be in my apartment

**Kent [11:08 pm]:** :D :D

Kent stuffs his phone in his bag.

“All right, I’m off,” he announces. There’s a chorus of “see you later”s as he slings his bag over his shoulder, and then he leaves the T-Mobile Arena for the last time in the season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YELL AT ME ABOUT THE GOOD OCS!!
> 
> Omg y'all I have been sitting on the pure joy that is Eli Ruther for like nine months and I finally get to put him out into the world! Dan! Picks! Conor! Sam! Karl! *flailing*
> 
> Also: a young rebuilding team with a famous trio consisting of a first-overall pick, a Swede, and a bouncy goofball winger? Whaddaya mean you can tell I'm a Leafs fan?
> 
> (But for serious my fellow Leafs fans, imagine we got Tavares and they put him on a line with Mitch.)
> 
> If you're wondering "But will a team like the Schooners be able to give Kent a long-term contract and also sign these adorable rookies when their ELCs end, and still fit under the cap?", then a) you're my kind of nerd and b) ask me about my CapFriendly spreadsheets.
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing the end, folks!! Two more after this (then probably a couple of short, epilogue-style updates over the few weeks after that...)
> 
> Previously on From The Ground Up: Settling into life in a new city. This week: playoffs, revelations, birthday presents, friendships. 
> 
> We're going to be moving through time faster than before, these last few chapters. So prepare to see snippets, rather than every significant moment in time!
> 
> Thanks to C (<3) and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

“How are the playoffs?” Khadija asks. Kent has called his internet provider three times but his WiFi is still shitty, so she’s kind of grainy today. He makes millions of dollars and he still can’t get a decent connection, which just goes to show that money can’t buy everything.

“Yeah, good,” he says. “I mean, my knee’s giving me hell, but that’s pretty much normal for the playoffs. Carlos is injured, which sucks. But I can’t complain. We’re in round two, and we won the first game, so…”

“I know.” Khadija chuckles. “Yesterday the paper came and the first thing I did was look at the hockey scores.”

Kent laughs. “I’m a bad influence.” Kit hops up on the table next to his laptop and meows. He reaches out and scratches behind her ear. She’s finally accepted that they live somewhere else now, and she’s become very good friends with her new catsitter.

Khadija smiles when Kit meows again. “So, how are things with your new team?”

“Yeah, good,” Kent says. “I like them. And it’s… They’re good guys, I think. I mean…” He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. I keep expecting them to turn around and do something shitty and ruin it.” He thinks it’s partly playoffs stress, but he worked himself into two panic attacks last week, literally just by imagining what his teammates _could_ say, even though nothing has happened.

“You think they’re good people, but the fact that you don’t know for sure is making you anxious,” Khadija says.

“Right,” he says. “And I don’t know… I’m worried that I’ll still keep expecting something bad to happen. That even if they don’t say anything homophobic or do anything bad, in two years I’ll still be sitting here expecting it to happen tomorrow.”

  
         -------------

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 4h

Tomorrow is game day! Round 2, Game 3, we’re excited! Bring it, Sharks!

 

**Maria Olafson** @MariaO1987 · 4h

I wouldn’t normally cheer for the Schooners but honestly fuck the Sharks right now.

|

**Audrey Pine** @audrey_101 · 4h

Us Schooners welcome all fans, even ones who just cheer for us because they’re sore losers :D

|

**Maria Olafson** @MariaO1987 · 4h

I mean yeah I’m a sore loser but that goal in game 6 should have counted and the Flames should’ve won it. You can’t honestly tell me the Sharks deserved round 1

|

**Audrey Pine** @audrey_101 · 4h

you know who else didn’t deserve round 1? The Ducks

|

**Maria Olafson** @MariaO1987 · 4h

Hahh yeah kicking them out was a public service for which we all thank you

  
         -------------

 

The plane to San Jose is loud. Kent had been trying to nap, but a couple of the younger guys are playing a card game across the aisle, and every time someone wins a round, there’s a cheer from the entire group.

Kent gives up on sleeping and rubs at his eyes. There’s nobody in the seat next to him, so he stands up and rests his elbows on the seats in front of him, where Picks and Tim are bickering about something.

“That is such a lie,” Tim says.

Picks grins widely at him. “Nah, man. Look, I’d give you phone numbers so you can call them, but I don’t kiss and tell.”

“What’s up, guys?” Kent says, and they both twist in their seats to look up at them.

“Okay, so Picks says he’s the best-looking guy on the team,” Tim says.

“All I’m saying is, there’s a reason ESPN wanted me in their body issue,” Picks says.

“Fuck you, and I don’t believe a word you were saying about those women either,” Tim shoots back. “Kent, he says two women came up to him after the last game and—no, you know what, I’m not even going to tell you because it’s all lies, which he’s telling because he can’t accept the fact that I’m better looking.”

Kent laughs, which seems to fire Tim up even more. He sputters and is about to say something else when Picks says, “Dude, why don’t we just ask Dan and settle it?”

Kent looks on, non-plussed, as Tim considers this for a moment and then says, “Yeah, you know what, fuck it, let’s do that. Hey Dan!” He shouts the last part across the cabin, to where Dan and Conor are in seats next to each other, each with a book in their hands. “Stop being a boring old man and come over here, we have a question for you!”

Dan looks over and raises an eyebrow. Then he folds a dog’s ear into the corner of his page, sets the book down, and crosses the cabin to lean against the side of the seat in front of Tim. “What’s up?”

“Okay,” Tim says. “Picky here says he’s the best-looking guy on the team—”

“Literally my body shoot should’ve been proof enough,” Picks interrupts.

“Which he’s obviously not,” Tim says over him. “Because that title’s already taken. By me. So anyway, since he won’t listen to reason, we figured we’d get, like, the definitive gay opinion about it.”

Dan guffaws and then says, “My wife would like me to point out that I’m bi.”

Kent can feel his heart racing in his chest. What the fuck is happening? He realizes he’s staring and tries to school his expression into something that hopefully resembles casual, amused interest in the conversation. His hands are shaking. He pulls them down from where he was leaning on the seats so the guys won’t see.

“Yeah, whatever, man.” Tim waves a hand at him. “The definitive not-straight opinion. And don’t listen to anything Picks says, he’s obviously lying, he claimed that two women—Whatever. And your body shoot is mediocre, man.”

“Ouch,” Dan says with a laugh.

“Oh, so you did look at my body shoot,” Picks says.

“Fuck off,” Tim says.

“Look, you know that just because I’m into guys, I’m still just one person, right?” Dan says.

Oh god, Dan is _into guys_. And Tim and Picks knew, and Dan doesn’t mind talking about it on a crowded plane. He obviously doesn’t mind Kent overhearing, and it doesn’t sound like anybody actually cares. The people in front of Picks and Tim—he thinks the goalies are in that row—and the rookies across the aisle can all hear what Dan is saying, and none of them are even reacting. Like this isn’t a problem, like this isn’t even news, like this isn’t _fucking earth-shattering_.

“Whatever, dude, just like, tell us who’s right,” Tim says.

“Have _you_ seen my body shoot?” Picks asks Dan. “Because you can’t make a judgment without having seen all the evidence, so if you’re going to tell us which of us is the best-looking guy on the team, you definitely need to have seen it.”

Dan rolls his eyes. “I see you in the locker room every day, man. And I’d like to point out that standards of beauty are arbitrary and not reflective of your worth as a person. Also, you’re both wrong.” He glances up at Kent and winks at him. “It’s Kent. Obviously. And now I’m getting back to my book.”

He turns without waiting for a response. Picks and Tim both crane their necks to look up at Kent, who stares after Dan and wills himself not to have a panic attack. After a moment, the two guys look at each other.

“Yeah, okay, that’s fair,” Tim says.

“Yup.” Picks  gestures at the stack of cards on Tim’s fold-out tray. “Another round then?”

  
         -------------

“This should make me happy, right?” he tells Khadija.

“What makes you say that?”

He tilts his laptop screen a little so he can see her better. “I should be happy that Dan is—Dan is, like… out. And nobody seems to care.”

“Let’s talk about how you _do_ feel rather than how you _should_ feel,” Khadija says.

“I don’t know,” he says. He puts his head in his hands and tugs at his hair. “I don’t know, I think it just makes me more anxious? Why the hell does it make me more anxious?”

“Do you think this might be harder to process because you’re in the middle of a playoff series?”

He huffs out a breath. “Probably, yeah. I don’t know. I just—I guess—I always thought I’d never come out to any teammates. But he’s out to people, and they don’t even care.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Does that change your mind about coming out to teammates?”

“No,” he says. “Maybe? I don’t know. I’m not—I don’t want—” He takes a deep breath before he talks himself into a panic attack.

Khadija sees, of course, and says, “You don’t need to make a decision about that right now.”

“Yeah.” He bites his lip. “It’s… I guess that is why, though. Why it makes me anxious. Because if he can be out, maybe I should be too, but I can’t do that.”

“Do you need to make the same decision he made?”

He sighs, because he knows the answer she wants to hear, and he knows she’s right. “No.”

“And do you need to decide now?”

“No,” he says again, and saying it out loud does make him feel better.

  
         -------------

 

There’s three minutes to go in Game 7 against the Sharks, and they’re down 4-2.

Games aren’t over ‘till they’re over. Kent takes a long gulp from his water bottle and squirts some of it onto his sweaty face and neck as he watches Karl pass to Jerome, then Jerome to Sam, but then Brent Burns sees through the next pass and cuts it off for a turnover. There’s a terrifying moment where it looks like Conor might not have seen through the play in time and the Sharks might get a breakaway, but Conor makes his turn just ahead of Burns and wins the puck back for the Schooners again.

He passes it to Sam, and Sam somehow finds a clear path through the Sharks defense and gets the puck to Karl right next to the goal. Kent is half on his feet as Karl shoots—the puck deflects off Jones’ pad and into Jerome’s skates, and Jerome somehow half-kicks it back to Karl again, and Karl deflects it off his stick to Sam; Jones scrambles to the side but can’t quite get his butterfly right and Sam slides the puck underneath him—

The buzzer goes off and Kent cheers with the rest of them. There’s 1:51 left on the clock, and now it’s just a one-goal difference.

“Parson, Ruther, Lindgren,” Bert says, so apparently they’re going all out, and not a moment too soon. “Brose, you’re up as soon as we get Misha to the bench.”

They go open net as soon as they get the puck, and then it’s a six-on-five. There’s bodies everywhere—Kent would always rather have a normal power play, where there aren’t half a dozen 200-pound men between the puck and the goal at any given point.

Eli gets the puck to him, and he pushes it to Sam who might have an opening, but Sam is forced to pass it back to Karl when two Sharks players get too close for comfort. If they give up the puck and let the Sharks get an open net goal, that’s it for this season—but if they don’t get the puck in the Sharks net within the next minute and fifteen seconds, that’s it for this season too.

Karl loses the puck to Paul Martin and for a terrifying second, Kent thinks that’s it. But Martin can’t get a good shot off and the puck goes wide of the Schooners’ open net for an icing call. There’s maybe twenty seconds where he can catch his breath, while Misha gets back on the ice. He goes off again immediately when Kent wins the faceoff.

There’s no time to look at the clock, but he can hear from the crowd when it’s really counting down the seconds. He’s not close to the goal—none of them are close enough, all the Sharks are where they should be. He fires off a shot anyway. It’s blocked by a Sharks D-man and deflects onto Sam’s stick, and Sam gets a shot off as well, but Jones gets it with the blocker, and then Eli gets a shot, but that one goes wide, and then—

Then the buzzer sounds, and the season is done.

  
         -------------  


God, he hates losing.

Eli looks near tears as they make their way into the locker room. Kent bumps their shoulders together. “Good work,” he says. That’s the most he can manage right now, in terms of consoling people, so he heads straight to the showers, where he doesn’t have to talk to anyone as he washes the grime and sweat off his body. It’s bad enough that he’ll have to talk to reporters in a couple of minutes.

God, they were so close right there at the end.

He knows this isn’t the last chance he’ll have. With Eli and Dan on his line, with the Schooners’ amazing depth in their forward section even before any off-season trades, the next season promises another chance at glory. It still hurts.

And there are always off-season changes. Teams are never the same when they make it back to the ice, and he finds that he dislikes that idea much more than he can remember from previous off-seasons.

The locker room is quiet even though almost everyone is still there. Kent is putting on his shirt when he gets called to do press. One more post-game interview, then no more for weeks and months.

No more games. No more wins, no Cup.

He takes a deep breath and goes to get interviewed.

  
         -------------

**Kent [11:49 pm]:** home in 10

**Tomas [11:51 pm]:** call me when you get there

**Kent [11:52 pm]:** also fyi as soon as I wake up tmrw im booking a flight to vegas

**Tomas [11:53 pm]:** I can’t wait

  
         -------------

Three days later finds Tomas shuffling into the kitchen. Kent is at the counter, so Tomas wanders into his arms. Kent smells like his shower gel.

“Morning,” Kent says, kissing the top of Tomas’ head.

“Mm, morning,” Tomas says. “How was your run?”

“Yeah, fine.” Kent’s arms tighten slightly around him. “Not—Not great. But I went, so.” Two days ago, Tomas had gotten up and found Kent on the couch, trying to stave off a panic attack over leaving Tomas’ apartment. Kent had skipped his run yesterday to avoid a repeat, but this morning Tomas had woken up to Kent’s keys in his front door as he came back.

Kent is still tense, now, but not so much that Tomas is worried there’s another panic attack incoming. He tilts his head up to kiss him, then wanders over to the coffee machine.

“Blog post today?” Kent asks as Tomas sets things up for his caffeine fix.

He hums affirmatively, then remembers the other thing on his schedule. “’m going climbing tonight, too. With Blake.”

“Cool.” Kent turns to the stove and inspects the eggs he’s frying before turning to the toaster. “I checked and there’s a couple places in Seattle, too. One of them has, like, a messaging board thing on their site where you can find a climbing partner if you don’t have one.”

Tomas steps up to Kent’s side and briefly rests his head on Kent’s shoulder. He hasn’t been awake long enough to say how he appreciates that, but Kent reads his body language pretty well, usually. It’ll come across. He listens to the quiet sputtering in the frying pan.

“You got any plans?” he asks after a while.

“Therapy at twelve. Gonna get in a workout afterwards.” Kent flips the eggs over, except for Tomas’ portion, because Tomas likes them sunny-side up. “Going out with Swoops tonight. Both our seasons are over so we gotta do our annual thing where we hit up a really fancy casino, play poker, and blow through more money in one night than most people make in a year just because we can.”

Tomas snorts out a laugh. Most of the time, Kent doesn’t really have as rich a lifestyle as he could have, given his income, but he’s mentioned this particular tradition before.

“Have you ever won anything?” he asks.

Kent reaches around Tomas for plates and dishes up the eggs right as the toast pops up out of the toaster. “I haven’t won much. Swoops won big a couple years back. Pretty sure he just got lucky. Guess we’ll see if tonight’s my night.”

“I won’t wait up.” 

“Good call.” Kent hands him his plate, and Tomas pours himself a mug of coffee before following Kent out to the living room. 

  
         -------------

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” Kent says as he watches his ball land in a greenside bunker. “Eli, I know you’re laughing at me back there.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Eli says. “It’s just that I didn’t expect you to be this bad. Uh, I mean—”

“Wow, thanks,” Kent says, laughing at Eli’s anxious expression. “Did you want to keep insulting my golf skills, or is that enough for now?”

“I thought it was a nice chip,” Dan says, grinning at him.

“Okay, there’s no need to get sarcastic,” Kent says. “Sam, back me up here.”

“I don’t want to be associated with you right now,” Sam says drily, peering at where Kent’s ball has disappeared into the sand.

“You’d think you’d be good at aiming with sticks, since it’s what you do for a living,” Dan says.

“Excuse you, they’re called clubs,” Eli says. They’re half a hole into a charity tournament and Kent already regrets somehow getting sorted into a group with Eli. Eli just told him that his parents wanted him to go pro in golf rather than hockey, and it shows. Kent, on the other hand, can’t remember the last time someone convinced him to participate in one of these.

Actually, that’s not true. The last time he golfed was with Jack, which is why he hasn’t golfed in ten years—though the fact that he’s always been shit at it may have factored in to that decision as well. Unfortunately, his skills have not magically improved throughout ten years of not playing.

“All right, all right,” he says, as the four of them make their way down the course to where Sam is up for his next shot. “I’m glad you’re all having a good laugh at my expense.”

“Makes a nice change from seeing you on the ice,” Dan says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thanks?” Kent says.

Dan grins at him. “Hey, if you need a bunch of mulligans, at least you know it’s for a good cause, eh?”

Kent snorts, but he’s had two shots so far and he would probably have liked a re-do for both of them, so Dan isn’t exactly wrong.

The weather is… not terrible for Seattle in late May, which is to say that the sun is out but calling it ‘warm’ would be an overstatement. Kent is just back from spending two weeks with Tomas in Vegas, where the hot, dry air was intense even on his early-morning runs. Here, he’s just glad it’s not raining.

Sam takes his shot, which is decent, and they split up in two pairs, so Kent can go hunt down his ball while Eli can go make some actual progress. They meet up again five shots later if you’re Kent—or two shots if you’re Eli and can get a birdie on the first hole.

“Is this just going to take you all day?” Eli teases.

“Respect your elders,” Kent grumbles, though he kind of likes that Eli is actually chirping him instead of his usual mix of hero worship and bashfulness.

Dan insists on keeping Kent company throughout most of his terrible, terrible round of golf. Kent half suspects him of faking a couple of bad shots to make Kent feel better, even though Kent is surprisingly at peace with how badly it’s going.

Eli, on the other hand, doesn’t pull his punches and finishes the course only a shot or two over par. This means he’s beaten all the other Schooners and is bragging about it by the time Kent and Dan make it to where drinks are being served.

“All right, kid, that’s enough,” Kent says, slinging his arm around Eli’s shoulders. “Since I lost, I’ll get you a beer—no, wait, a lemonade, maybe.”

“Fuck off,” Eli says, because the fact that he isn’t 21 yet is a constant source of chirping, and he’s gotten a little better at fighting it off.

“That’s the spirit,” Kent says.

“But get me a drink,” Eli adds, grinning at him.

Kent makes it back a couple of minutes later with a Coke for Eli and a whiskey for himself. “So why didn’t you go pro in golf?” he asks as he hands Eli his drink. Picks and Gunne wander over to join their conversation.

“I don’t know, really. Didn’t like the idea. Golf is supposed to be chill, you know? I didn’t want to put the pressure on it by making it about money. Also, hockey pays better,” Eli says with a chuckle.

“Better let your agent negotiate a good contract after your ELC, then,” Picks says. “Kent, what am I hearing about you scoring in the 130s?”

“129, thanks very much,” Kent says. “Should I just call the whole team together right now so we can all have a laugh about this and get it over with, or what?”

“You know he will take you up on that, right?” Gunne says, just as Eli says, “That sounds like a great idea.”

“Quiet, you,” Kent tells Eli, who just grins at him. “No respect,” Kent despairs to Conor, who’s come over to join them too.

“Well, from what I’m hearing you don’t exactly command respect on a golf course, Mr Bogey,” Conor says.

“Oh my god,” Kent says, but he can’t help laughing. He catches Eli mouthing ‘Bogey’ at Gunne and already knows that nickname’s gonna stick. “I’m never playing golf with any of you again.”

“But it’s for charity,” Picks says, mock offended. “Don’t you care about the underserved children of Seattle?”

“I’ll write them a check,” Kent says. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get another whiskey to help me forget my inglorious defeat.”

  
         -------------

 

“It’s been three weeks since I had a panic attack,” Kent says. Khadija smiles at him from his screen.

  
         -------------

 

“Happy birthday,” Kent says, when Tomas opens the door. “Sorry I’m so late, flight got delayed.”

Tomas really doesn’t care. “Come here,” he says, pulling Kent inside and into his arms.

Kent hums, wrapping his arms tight around Tomas. “I’ve missed you,” he says.

“I’ve missed you too,” Tomas says, tilting his head up for a kiss.

Kent kisses him back, pushing his hands under Tomas’ shirt. His warm fingers feel amazing on Tomas’ skin. Tomas reaches up to card his fingers through Kent’s hair, and Kent lets out a breathy gasp into the kiss. He’s less responsive now than he was when they just started dating, but only by a little.

“Wait,” Kent says, just when Tomas is thinking about dragging him to the bedroom. Kent blows out a breath and steps back. “In a bit, yeah? I want—let’s sit down first.”

They’re on Tomas’ couch a moment later, after Kent has put his suitcase in the bedroom. Kent pulls Tomas close against him, and Tomas relaxes against his side.

“How’s your day been?” Kent asks.

“Yeah, pretty good,” Tomas says. “I went out with a couple friends last night for drinks, so I slept in this morning. Then I Skyped my parents, wrote a blog post, talked to Émilie. Then you showed up.”

“Mm, sounds great,” Kent says. “Listen, I have—I guess this isn’t exactly a birthday present, but…” He pauses for a moment, but before Tomas can ask what it is, he says, “I signed with Seattle.”

Tomas sits up straight so he can see Kent’s face. “You did? Already?”

Kent bites his lip, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, I thought they’d want to wait ‘till July, but I guess they wanted to get me before I could negotiate with anyone else, and obviously I was down, so—It’s six years.” He’s really smiling now, his eyes lighting up with it, and Tomas is sure his expression can’t be much different. “They would maybe have gone for seven or eight, but then I’d have had to take a pay cut, and I figured six would be fine anyway. So I signed this morning. I figured if I did it right before my flight, I could make sure you found out from me and not from Twitter.”

Tomas cups Kent’s face in his hands. “That’s fantastic,” he says. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, still smiling widely. He leans forward and presses a kiss to Tomas’ lips. “So you better start looking for a job in Seattle.”

“Actually, ESPN wants to offer me a freelance contract to write for them,” Tomas says. “They’ve got an office in Seattle, so it works out well that I’ll be there, but I’d probably be working from home. I might need to write a bit more for the blog to make ends meet, or take some more commissions on the side, but I’m pretty sure I can make it work.”

“Fuck,” Kent says. “That’s amazing.” He kisses him again.

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “So I guess—I mean, now that you’ve got your contract, I guess I can start looking for apartments.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “I can’t wait ‘till we live in the same city again.”

“Me neither,” Tomas says.

“Hey, so,” Kent says. “I got you something.”

“I was afraid of that,” Tomas says, but he’s smiling. He knows how much Kent loves to buy him stuff, and it is his birthday.

“Okay,” Kent says. “Stay here.” He nudges Tomas to sit up so he can stand up. “I’ll be a minute,” he says, and he looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“All right,” Tomas says. Kent smirks at him and disappears into the bedroom.

It’s more than a minute, but then Kent’s voice drifts into the living room, and he’s switched to French. “ _Je sais que tu es content que ce soit Seattle_ ,” he says, “ _but I also know you were kinda disappointed that it wasn’t the Habs, even though it could’ve been, so—”_

He steps out again, and he’s wearing—he’s wearing a Habs jersey. There’s _90_ on the arm and when Kent does a turn, there’s _PARSON_ on the back.

“ _Crisse_ ,” Tomas says, because he may or may not have pictured this sometimes, when Kent was all the way in Seattle. Sue him, it’s his favorite hockey player and his favorite team.

“ _You can never tell a soul that I bought this,_ ” Kent says. He takes a step forward and smirks at the expression on Tomas’ face.

“ _I won’t, if you don’t make fun of me for how much this is a turn-on_ ,” Tomas says.

Kent’s smirk widens. “ _I mean, you’re welcome to take it off me if you like. Or, you know, I can take off everything else I’m wearing and keep this on_.”

“ _Yeah, good plan,”_ Tomas says. He’s not sure when he got to his feet, but he wastes no time pushing Kent back into the bedroom. When he wraps his arms around Kent to pull him close and kiss him, he can feel the _PARSON_ lettering under his fingertips. He can’t even really explain why it’s so hot, but it totally is.

Kent groans when Tomas slides his hands underneath the jersey and up over Kent’s ribs. “Fuck,” he says. “I missed you.” He tugs at the bottom of Tomas’ shirt, so Tomas leans back to pull it over his head.

“Take your jeans off,” Tomas says, and Kent does, stepping out of his shoes and socks as well so he’s just in boxers and the Habs jersey. Tomas steps forward and strokes him through his boxers.

“Ahh,” Kent moans, dropping his head onto Tomas’ shoulder, his hips thrusting forward for more friction. “Fuck, I want—” He breaks off.

“What do you want?” Tomas says.

“ _Non, c’est—c’est ton anniversaire,”_ Kent says. “You—whatever you want.”

Tomas tugs the jersey up a little to stroke Kent’s gorgeous abs. “Mm,” he says. _“_ What if I want to fuck you?”

“Yeah, good, please,” Kent says, with a speed that implies that that’s definitely what he’d been about to suggest himself.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Tomas says. He reaches for the fly of his jeans, but Kent pushes his hand away. He kisses Tomas’ bare collarbone and then sinks down to his knees, undoing the button and zipper of Tomas’ pants. He pulls them down along with Tomas’ underwear, and then looks up at Tomas through his lashes. When he licks his lips, Tomas’s breath stutters.

Kent licks up the length of Tomas’ dick, just enough pressure to tease. Tomas slides his hands into Kent’s hair, and Kent lets out a whine, then wraps his lips around Tomas’ dick and slides his mouth down.

Tomas wants to close his eyes and focus on how amazing it feels, but he also really wants to watch. Kent has one hand on Tomas’ hips and the other on his own dick, not moving, just pressure because he still gets incredibly turned on giving blowjobs. “ _Tu m’fais du bien_ ,” Tomas mumbles, and Kent hums, the vibrations pulling a moan from Tomas.

He can feel his arousal spiking, so it’s not long before he pushes gently at Kent’s shoulder, and Kent sits back. His face is flushed, and his pupils are wide, and Tomas is never going to forget what he looks like right now.

“C’mon,” he says, pulling Kent up and guiding him until he’s lying on his back on the bed. He rummages around in his bedside drawer for the lube, and then he’s opening Kent up, slowly because it’s been a while.

It doesn’t take long before Kent gets loud; it never does. Tomas leans over to kiss him, and Kent wraps his arms around Tomas’ shoulders to hold him close.

“I’m ready, c’mon,” Kent gasps into his mouth.

Tomas draws out the prep for a little while longer, because Kent is impatient and Tomas doesn’t want to hurt him. But a moment later, he’s spreading lube on his dick. He leans over Kent, one hand on either side of him, and kisses him. Then he’s pushing in slowly, tight heat all around him. He tries to keep his breathing steady, his pace slow, but it’s hard because it feels so good.

Kent moans, his arms going slack. He has his eyes closed, his blond hair in tangles around his face, his hands on either side of his head. The jersey is rucked up over his stomach, and one sleeve got pushed up to the elbow. On the other sleeve, the _90_ is just visible against the sheets.

Tomas pushes all the way in, and there’s a breathless moment where everything is still. “Can I?” Tomas asks.

Kent thrusts his hips so Tomas’ dick slides out a bit, then back in. “Yeah,” he says, his voice high and breathless.

It’s easier to move than it was to keep still. Tomas snaps his hips back and then forward, and Kent moans, which just makes everything feel even better. It doesn’t take long to get into a rhythm—agonizingly good for Tomas, if a little slower than Kent tends to want. Tomas makes up for it by getting Kent to wrap his legs around him until he can get the right angle. He knows he’s found it when Kent arches his back off the bed and whimpers, “Ahhh, yeah, yeah,” trailing off into another moan.

Kent reaches down to stroke himself. Tomas slows down a little more, so he can draw it out, and so he can kiss the frustrated expression off Kent’s face.

“Come on—ah, fuck,” Kent whines when Tomas thrusts in again.

“Talk to me,” Tomas says breathlessly.

“Fuck,” Kent says. He takes a stuttering breath. “I—God, you feel so good. I’m—I’m really fucking close so if you’d stop fucking teasing me I could— _ahh_ , ahh, I could—I could come, but also I want you to keep going ‘cause, ah, god, ‘cause it feels so good.”

“Yeah?” Tomas pants. He’s right on the edge, but he doesn’t want to go over yet.

“Yeah,” Kent says breathlessly. “I’m—I was totally thinking about this when I bought the jersey because I knew—I knew it’d be a thing for you. I knew you’d think I look s-sexy as a Hab— _ahhh,_ fuck,” he groans, when Tomas speeds up. “Ah, fuck, Tomas come on, I’m so close.”

Tomas moans in agreement. He pushes Kent’s hand out of the way so he can jerk him off.

“Nnh—” Kent moans, his voice breaking

The sight of Kent in the jersey, shaking through his orgasm, is what tips Tomas over the edge right after him. He muffles his groan in Kent’s neck.

They pant together for a little while. When Kent’s breathing is almost back to normal, he says, “Well, now this thing needs washing.”

Tomas huffs out a laugh. “Did you think it’d stay clean?”

“Nah,” Kent says. “Told you I’ve been imagining this.”

“I can’t believe you own a Habs jersey now,” Tomas says. He pulls out of Kent, gently so he doesn’t hurt either of them. He rolls to the side and leans up on one elbow, so he can trace Kent’s number on the sleeve. “I can’t believe you got it personalized.”

“Only the best for you,” Kent says. “…Which the Habs aren’t,” he adds, a moment too late.

“Sure, whatever, you’re wearing their jersey right now,” Tomas says.

“I’m gonna take it off,” Kent says, but he rolls over toward Tomas so he’s on his stomach and Tomas can trace the name on the back.

“No, you’re not,” Tomas says. “And hey, a jersey is a reasonably priced birthday gift by your standards, congratulations on managing that.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Kent says, “I also got you a new phone, but sure.”

Tomas buries his face in Kent’s neck and laughs.

  
         -------------

**Elliotte Hiedman** @HiedgeHNIC · 3h

Schooners sign a 6-year, 75M contract with Parson.

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

We have signed Kent Parson to a six-year contract!

 

**CapFriendly** @Capfriendly · 3h

#Schooners sign Kent Parson

6 years / $75M contract ($12.5M AAV)

*Full No-Move Clause (NMC)

 

**CapFriendly** @Capfriendly · 3h

Parson’s new contract is somewhat frontloaded and just over 50% of the cap hit comes in signing bonuses.

 

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 3h

Damn, guess it isn’t surprising that Parson signed with the Schooners but I gotta say I was holding out hope he’d come back

|

**Zach** @RealMrZachary · 3h

Yeah me too. There was always a chance it really was just a weird playoffs loan in exchange for picks

 

**Audrey Pine** @Audrey_101 · 2h

Fuck yeah what a deal! Six years! And I half expected him to walk if we didn’t give him 14M at least

 

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 2h

@MariaO1987 Do you think Parson just really wants another cup? So he’ll take a pay cut to get it bc the Schooners are up & coming?

|

**Maria Olafson** @MariaO1987 · 2h

Yeah maybe. Or he just really likes Seattle and doesn’t want to move again

|

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 2h

Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if this deal was already in the works when he got traded. Maybe that’s why he waived his no move

|

**Maria Olafson** @MariaO1987 · 2h

Honestly, that trade is still SUCH a mystery to me. The Aces were in a playoffs spot, could’ve made a good run, and they could’ve re-signed him; he’s worth whatever money he might’ve asked for

|

**Maria Olafson** @MariaO1987 · 2h

Unless he wanted to leave himself, but why?? He’s always loved Vegas and the Aces, seemed dejected when he left, and it can’t have been for a cup bc the Aces were still contenders

|

**Maria Olafson** @MariaO1987 · 2h

And why trade him to a division rival? Did he agree to go, or did they somehow make him waive his NMC even though he didn’t want to?

|

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 2h

Guess we’ll never know. It can go down in history w the Weber/Subban trade for inexplicable hockey decisions

  
         -------------

 

“So you feel good about signing with the Schooners?” Khadija asks.

Kent settles into his chair. Skyping her works just fine, but it’s nice to meet face-to-face every now and then. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do. I mean, I’m still nervous it’s gonna go wrong, but I think it was the right choice.”

“Do you want to talk about why it makes you nervous?”

He sips the tea that Khadija just got him. It’s still far too hot, so he puts it down. “Yeah, I guess.”

  
         -------------  
  


**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 4d

ANNOUNCEMENT: Starting in September, I will be writing about the NHL twice a week for @ESPN

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 4d

I had a great season-and-a-half with the #LVAces PR team but am excited about this new opportunity!

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 4d

Posting schedule for the blog will likely remain unchanged – twice weekly posts will recommence the week before training camp.

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau **·** 4d

Starting in the new season, my blog will be Patreon-supported as well as ad-supported. More info to follow!

  
         -------------

**Tomas [2:34 pm]:** Why is it always so hot here??

**Émilie [2:35 pm]:** Dunno man, it’s almost like you live in a desert

**Émilie [2:35 pm]:** If it makes you feel any better, it is also hot in Montreal. It’s July. It’s hot everywhere.

**Tomas [2:37 pm]:** It’s light jacket weather in Seattle, apparently, I just checked. Just two more weeks!!

It’s a while before Émilie replies again. Tomas goes back to his article, flicking back and forth to and from Twitter just to kill the time. His commitments with the Aces are pretty much tied up, and he cuts down his number of blog posts in the summer, so it’s not like he has any real deadlines to worry about. Theoretically, this means he has a lot of time to start packing in advance. In reality, he’s going to rush through that in the last day anyway.

**Émilie [2:53 pm]:** So that’s still going ahead?

He hates how hard it is to read her tone in text. Things have been strained between them since the trade, stilted and awkward in a way it’s never been before, and Tomas had no idea how to make it better.

**Tomas [2:55 pm]:** Yeah. I feel a bit bad about leaving Vegas so quickly

**Tomas [2:56 pm]:** I think I stressed Catrina out since half her staff is leaving

**Tomas [2:56 pm]:** And I couldn’t really explain why since it’s not like I’m really taking a step up, career-wise

**Tomas [2:57 pm]:** Which is fine, but makes it hard to explain, you know?

To his surprise, his screen lights up with a phone call seconds later. Time was, Tomas wouldn’t have blinked to receive a call out of the blue from Emilie, but… but they haven’t called much, since that call after the trade. He’s apologized for snapping at her and she’s said it’s fine, but it clearly isn’t. There’s something still in the air between them, even over text, so Tomas has a stone in the pit of his stomach when he picks up. _“Hey?”_

_“Hey, it’s me.”_

_“Yeah, I know. Caller ID has been a thing for, like, a decade.”_ He’s aiming his tone for teasing, but somehow he’s managed to just sound like a dick.

There’s a pause on Emilie’s line. “ _Yeah, sorry,”_ she says eventually.

God, how did things get so hard between them?

He suppresses a sigh. _“What’s up?”_

_“I just… I dunno, you sounded stressed, I thought you might want to talk?”_

_“Oh,” he says. “No, I’m fine, I just—”_ He sighs. _“I don’t know. I don’t have a lot on my plate right now, so… Off-season blues, I guess.”_ He misses Kent, but something stops him from saying that. He misses Émilie too, even though he’s literally on the phone with her right now. He’s made other friends since coming to Vegas—colleagues he goes out drinking with, the guys he meets up with to go rock climbing every week—but it’s not the same.

Kent signed for six years in Seattle. When Tomas gets there, he’s going to have another shot at building up a new network, and he’s going to do better this time.

_“Yeah, it’s the same here,” Émilie says. “How’s, uh, how’s the move coming?”_

_“Yeah, fine,”_ he says. _“I think I have it all sorted out, so… I mean, it’s not that complicated, I guess. It’s always hard to judge from pictures but I think the apartment is pretty nice. And I’ve got the moving van booked and all. I’m just not looking forward to packing, you know?”_

_“You haven’t—I thought you visited him last month?”_ Émilie says.

_“Yeah?”_ he says, confused.

_“So you know what the place looks like, then, right?”_

_“Oh,”_ he says. Has he not said—He knows he hasn’t talked to her about the move that much, but… _“No, I’m not moving in with him.”_

There’s a couple of seconds of silence. _“You’re not?”_ she asks, and he couldn’t read her tone over text but turns out he can’t read it over the phone either.

_“No, it’s—we haven’t been together that long,”_ he says weakly. It’s the right decision for them right now, he knows. Kent is still working through a lot of anxiety over spending more time with Tomas again, especially in a city he’s still getting to know. They’ve had a couple of long conversations—they both _want_ to live together, but it’d be too much, too soon. The fact that they’ve been together for less than a year factored in a little, but it’s the only part of their reasoning he can really share. _“So we just thought, you know…”_

_“Yeah, that makes sense, I guess,”_ Émilie says. It doesn’t sound convincing. There’s another beat, and then she says, hesitant, _“Are you—Are you sure it’s the right choice? Moving to Seattle?”_

He doesn’t have to think about that one. _“Yes,”_ he says. “ _Yeah, I want to, I’m—I’m just stressed about getting everything sorted, and I’m—I feel kind of in limbo right now, you know? With work so quiet, and everyone out of town. But I’m not second-guessing.”_

_“Okay,”_ Émilie says. _“Okay, good.”_ It’s quiet again. God, he hates this. _“I should go,”_ she says finally. _“But you know I’m here if you need me, right?”_

_“Yeah, of course,”_ he says. “ _You too.”_

_“I know,”_ she says, and the line goes dead.

  
         -------------

**Tomas [3:15 pm]:** Just made it to my new place

**Kent [3:16 pm]:** welcome to seattle <3

**Kent [3:17 pm]:** need help unpacking?

**Tomas [3:18 pm]:** No I’m gonna put it off till tomorrow

**Kent [3:18 pm]:** u mean ur gonna put it off till nxt week

**Tomas [3:19 pm]:** Don’t call me out like that

**Kent [3:20 pm]:** <3

**Tomas [3:21 pm]:** I’m coming over to yours for dinner right?

**Kent [3:25 pm]:** actually do you want to go out for dinner

Kent isn’t really surprised when his phone rings about a minute after he sent the text. “Hey,” he says as he picks up.

“Hi,” Tomas says, then gets straight to the point. “You want to go out for dinner?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He takes a deep breath and ignores the slight tremor in his hands. Time to voice his thoughts and feelings. Khadija is going to be proud of him when they Skype later this week. “I’m—I want to celebrate that you’re here. And I… I guess I want to prove that I can. So. I mean. I uh. I’m kinda nervous,” he admits. “But I want to. So.”

“Okay,” Tomas says. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Tomas says again. “If you need to leave…”

Kent resists the urge to say that he’ll be fine. Maybe he will be, but maybe he won’t, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to leave Tomas behind in a restaurant ever again. “I’ll let you know,” he says. “I’ll—yeah. I’ll let you know how it’s going.”

“Okay. Where do you want to go?”

“There’s this Italian bistro thing, I’ve been with the team a couple of times,” Kent says. It means the wait staff knows him, which feels risky. It’s better than the alternative, though, which is to go somewhere he’s never been before. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Cool,” Tomas says. “Do you need anything from me?”

Kent bites his lip. “Not really, just—no PDA or anything, obviously.”

“Of course,” Tomas says. “But I’m coming home with you after.”

“Can’t wait another day to touch my hot body?” Kent teases, though he’d had no intention of letting Tomas go anywhere but to Kent’s bed after they went out.

“Please, as if you’re not worse than me,” Tomas says.

It’s been a little over five weeks since Kent was last in Vegas. They’ve gone longer without seeing each other in person, between Kent’s last Vegas game and the end of the playoffs. That was hard, because Kent had still felt sort of lost and untethered in Seattle, but at least he’d had the playoffs to distract him. It’s been easier, over the past month, but also harder because all Kent has going on is off-season training.

“I can’t wait,” he says.

He can hear the smile in Tomas’ voice when he replies, “Me neither.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Je sais que tu es content que ce soit Seattle,” = I know you're glad it's Seattle  
> “Non, c’est—c’est ton anniversaire,” = No, it's-- It's your birthday.  
> “Tu m’fais du bien,” = You make me feel good / You feel good
> 
> I love every single comment, I fawn over all of them (though I usually am not great at responding in a timely fashion to the ones I get later in the week) and you can make my day by leaving one :D
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com).


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops! I know I'm a day late, sorry folks! To make up for it, this one is over 12K. 
> 
> Previously on From The Ground Up: Kent slowly growing to feel at home in Seattle, and Tomas finally joining him. This week: Telling people things.
> 
> Again, reminder we're moving fast these last few chapters, so you have to fill in some of the blanks yourself :)
> 
> Thanks to C (<3) and J for beta/proofreading work and to [omgquebecplease](http://omgquebecplease.tumblr.com) for French help. English in the end notes :)

Tomas leans against the wall beside the front entrance of the sports complex and pulls out his phone. Before he can open Twitter, though, he hears his name called from beside him.

“Tomas, right?”

“Hey,” he says, dropping his phone back into his pocket. The guy in front of him is an inch or two shorter, with olive skin and short straight hair that’s almost black. His t-shirt has a pictogram of a bike with “∞ MPG” underneath it. “You must be Levi.”

“Good to meet you,” Levi says, holding out his hand for Tomas to shake. “Wanna grab a drink first, before we put our lives in each other’s hands at thirty feet in the air?”

Tomas likes him immediately. Letting his sort-of new colleague Alyssa set him up with a climbing buddy was definitely a good idea. They head for the bar-and-restaurant attached to the sports complex and soon enough they’re both nursing a drink.

“So what do you do?” Tomas asks.

“I work for Renewable Northwest,” Levi says. “It’s a nonprofit advocacy organization for clean energy.”

“Oh, cool! So how green is Seattle?”

“Well, Washington is third in the country when it comes to clean energy production,” Levi says. “So not bad, but obviously we need to scale up. I’m on an advocacy project at the moment to work with the state House on legislation.”

They talk about Levi’s project for a while, then he asks, “So what do you do? You’re new to Seattle, right?”

“Yeah, just got here a couple weeks back,” Tomas says. “I’m a sports journalist. Hockey.”

“Oh, so you’re covering the, uh, the Schooners?” Levi says. He looks vaguely interested still, but not in the way that sports fans do when they hear about his job. That’s good—Tomas’ climbing buddies back in Vegas weren’t into hockey either, which meant seeing them meant he could take an actual break from work.

“Not specifically,” he says. “I have a blog, which is about the NHL generally and my home team, the Habs. Montreal.”

“Oh yeah, I was wondering what your accent was.” Levi chuckles. “Quebec, then, that makes sense.”

Tomas chuckles. “Yeah, it’s an odd one, I know. Anyway, I also write freelance for ESPN. They might put me on Schooners duty now and then, but it’s mostly the NHL at large.”

“So what brings you to Seattle, then? Pretty far from home.” Levi looks open and curious and Tomas wishes, for a moment, that he could tell the truth. He met their mutual friend Alyssa at a networking event for LGBT freelancers, and she’d mentioned Levi has a boyfriend. Normally he’d consider another queer guy capable of keeping a secret, and he’d like _someone_ in this city to know why he’s really here. But it’s off the table, of course. He could keep Kent’s name secret, say his boyfriend isn’t out—but even then, he knows Kent wouldn’t be comfortable with it.

“Closer to home than before,” Tomas says. “I worked in Vegas before this, with their NHL team. Couldn’t get used to the climate, though, so I figured it was time for a change.”

“Damn, yeah, I couldn’t survive a month in the desert.” Levi winces sympathetically.

Tomas chuckles. “Good for solar energy though, I bet. You wanna go climb?”

Levi drains the last of his drink. “Yeah, let’s hit the wall.”

**  
****\-------------** ****  
  


There’s nothing better, Kent decides, than waking up next to Tomas in his Seattle apartment on a summer day. Tomas stays over more often than not, so he gets to have this a lot.

Kent rolls over so he’s cuddled up to Tomas, who mumbles something in his sleep but doesn’t move. He dozes for another few minutes but can’t convince his body to go back to sleep. He traces patterns onto the bare skin of Tomas’ back for a little while, enjoying the feeling of smooth skin under his fingers.

Tomas doesn’t wake, and eventually Kent goes for his run, has a shower, and makes himself breakfast. Kit trails him as he takes his food to the couch. She’d been angry with him for weeks after he got her to Seattle, but she’s finally settled in her new home. He feels a little cruel that he’s about to uproot her existence again.

There’s nothing really wrong with this apartment, but it’s rented, and it doesn’t make sense for him not to own his place. Besides, he’s kind of excited about the idea of living in a house, rather than an apartment—it’ll be nice to have a lawn, a patio maybe, a firepit; a building that’s all his and that he doesn’t have to share with neighbors.

He watches TV until Tomas wanders out of the bedroom. They cuddle on the couch while Tomas drinks his coffee, and then Kent goes to the gym to work out with his trainer. He only has one workout today, since he’s got another appointment to look at a house this afternoon.

When he gets back home, Tomas is on the couch with his laptop, Kit draped over his feet. “Hey,” Tomas says, looking up from what looks like a HockeyReference page.

“Hey,” Kent says, smiling at the scene in front of him. He wasn’t sure if Tomas was still going to be around when he got back, though he usually texts if he needs to head home for some reason.

It’s been a while since that happened, though. Tomas was definitely at his place all day yesterday, working on a blog post while Kent was at the gym, and the day before that he only left to go indoor climbing.

Tomas has his own drawers in Kent’s walk-in closet and his own books stacked on the coffee table.

Kent sinks to his knees beside the couch and kisses Tomas when he turns to him. “When’s the last time you were at your apartment?” he asks.

Tomas frowns. “Uh,” he says. “The day before yesterday, maybe? Or the day before that?” He bites his lip, looking thoughtful.

Kent knows why they decided Tomas should have his own apartment in Seattle—because moving cities was already a big change for both of them, because moving in together would be stressful since Kent is still worried about their relationship being found out, because it’s been less than a year since they started dating—but honestly, what does any of that even mean when Tomas is here all the time, anyway? It’s been at least a week since they last spent a night apart, he thinks, and he remembers he was disappointed when he woke up alone.

Tomas is looking a little worried now. Kent shifts so he’s sitting on the floor, leaning his side against the couch.

“You wanna come with me this afternoon?” he asks. Now Tomas just looks confused, so he clarifies, “To look at that house in Ravenna.”

Tomas tilts his head to the side. “Sure,” he says.

“I mean…” Kent takes a deep breath. “I want you to look at properties with me because I want you to move in with me.”

“Oh,” Tomas says. Kent glances up at him, just in time to see a slow smile spread on his face. “Are you sure? Because we said—”

“I know,” Kent says, looking back down. “But I want—I’m happier when you’re around. And you’re always here, anyway. So… You don’t have to, obviously, if you’d rather have your own place. But if you want, then… Then we should look for a place we both like.”

Tomas slides his hand into Kent’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp. Kent leans into it, resisting the urge to close his eyes. “I’d love that,” Tomas says.

Kent sighs in relief, even though he was pretty sure Tomas would want to. “Okay,” he says. “I’m looking at one this afternoon and another on Friday, so you should come with. But I also really liked the place in Laurelhurst that I saw last weekend. It had office space on the ground floor that would be perfect for you.”

“Hmm,” Tomas says. “Well, then I suppose you’ll have to get a second viewing, so we can look at that one together, too.” He keeps up the gentle movement of his fingers, and now Kent does close his eyes.

**  
** **\-------------**

**Kent [2:03 pm]:** [PHOTO]

**Kent [2:04 pm]:** signed the contract :D

**Tomas [2:06 pm]:** Can’t wait to live there!!

**  
** **\-------------**

**Tomas [8:09 pm]:** God I hate packing

**Tomas [8:10 pm]:** Why are there so many boxes

**Kent [8:19 pm]:** this is y u shld have let me pay 4 them to do it

**Kent [8:20 pm]:** im gonna call swoops & catch up but when im done ill call u and keep u company

**Tomas [8:22 pm]:** Excellent

**  
** **\-------------**

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL ∙ 5d

Everyone is back in town after a long summer of training! Camp starts tomorrow, get excited!

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL ∙ 5d

In our first pre-season game on Tuesday, we’ll be facing off against the Oilers.

 

**Eli Ruther** @EliRuther98 ∙ 5d

Can’t wait to start the season!

 

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 ∙ 5d

new season shld be fun! kit is already dressed up in her schooners gear

[PHOTO]

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL ∙ 1d

Our first pre-season game goes to OT at 2-2…

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL ∙ 1d

Oilers beat us in the shootout.

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL ∙ 1d

This makes us sad. But there’s also reason to be happy: hockey’s back, baby!

 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau ∙ 1d

Back to regular blogging schedule, with real hockey to talk about! (Well, pre-season is sort of real, right?) t.co/uispMHFeA

  
         -------------  


“Honey, I’m home,” Kent calls, tossing his keys onto the kitchen counter.

“Hey,” Tomas calls from the office. He swivels his chair around when Kent comes in. “How was training?”

Kent leans down and kisses him. “Yeah, all right,” he says. He peers at Tomas’ computer screen. “Blog post?”

“ESPN column,” Tomas says. He sighs. “I was hoping to be done with it by now, because I do have a blog post to write, but I’m stuck.”

Kent grimaces sympathetically. “That sucks. Anything I can do?”

“No, I just…” Tomas sighs again. “I just need to sit down and get through it and not let myself get distracted.”

He chuckles. “I’ll get out of your hair. I’m gonna have a snack. You want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” Tomas says.

Back in the kitchen, Kent makes a protein shake and then turns to the stack of Tomas’ boxes in the corner. They’ve unpacked the majority of them, but there’s still a couple left, and he might as well do one or two. The top is marked ‘misc kitchen stuff’, so he pulls it open and starts finding space in the kitchen cabinets.

He’s unpacked the first box and is halfway through the second when Tomas comes out. “Need help?” he says.

“If your column’s done,” Kent says, because he knows Tomas’ procrastinating ways.

Tomas grins and wraps his arms around Kent from behind, pressing a kiss to his neck. “Yeah, it’s done, I just sent it in,” he says.

Kent twists in Tomas’ arms to kiss him properly. “Good job,” he says.

“I’m gonna save the blog post for tonight,” Tomas says. “I need coffee, and then I can—” He’s interrupted by the doorbell.

Kent frowns. Tomas looks as confused as he does, so he figures Tomas isn’t expecting anyone either. “Hang on,” Kent says.

He can’t help a flicker of anxiety as he walks to the hallway. Having Tomas around still feels dangerous, which is really something he should get over since Tomas lives here as much as he does. He’s been talking about it with Khadija, and he knew what he was doing when he asked Tomas to move in, but that doesn’t mean the feeling’s gone.

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting when he opens the door, but what he finds on the other side is Dan, smiling at him. He’s got some sort of flowering plant in a pot under his arm.

“Hey,” Dan says. “Figured I should welcome you to the neighborhood.” He grins and holds out the plant. “Well, it was Annie’s idea, really, when I told her you’d moved in only a couple blocks away. I guess I’m kinda late, since you’ve been here for over a week at this point, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Oh,” Kent says, a little stunned as he takes the plant from him. “Thanks, that’s… Uh, you wanna come in?” he says, ignoring the knot in his stomach. Tomas knows he isn’t out to his teammates. He isn’t going to give Kent away.

Besides, if he did, it might not be the end of the world. Kent’s beginning to consider that he could come out to some of his teammates, and Dan would probably be first.

Dan follows him to the kitchen, where Tomas is standing next to the coffee machine. “Oh,” Dan says, stopping short in the doorway. “I didn’t realize you already had a friend over. I can come back some other time if it’s easier.”

Tomas doesn’t seem at all affected, being described as Kent’s friend. All of a sudden, though, Kent finds that he really doesn’t like it. Tomas isn’t just a friend, and he’s not just ‘over’, and it’s probably only a matter of time before Dan finds out, so it might as well be now. He puts the plant on the counter and turns back to Dan. “No,” he says. “I, uh. He lives here. With me. He’s my boyfriend.”

Dan blinks at him, then frowns, then just stares at him like he’s waiting for a punchline, which is fucking unnerving. “What?” he says after a couple of long seconds.

Kent clenches his hands into fists so he can’t feel how badly they’re shaking. Tomas is just kind of looking at him, too, probably because he doesn’t really know what Kent wants him to do in the situation he’s just jumped into head-first. “Uh. Yeah,” Kent says. “He’s. This is Tomas and we’re dating.”

Tomas steps forward. “Good to meet you,” he says, and holds out his hand.

Dan shakes it, but he’s still staring at Kent. “So you’re…” he says.

Kent swallows. He doesn’t know why he expected this to go any better when he spent literally no time thinking it through. “Yeah,” Kent says, though he’s not sure what Dan was asking.

“Shit, I had no idea, man,” Dan says. “Is this—sorry, is this something I should have known about? Because I had no clue.”

Tomas steps back to Kent’s side and squeezes his wrist for just a moment, quietly supportive.

“No, it’s—I was going to tell you at some point probably,” Kent says. He rakes a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t, uh, expecting you to show up, and I—Uh, I dunno.”

Dan seems to cotton on to the fact that Kent is kind of dying of anxiety here. “Oh,” he says. “Okay, cool, well, that’s great,” he says.

Kent takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, which helps to calm down. “Right. Uh. Do you want coffee?” he says.

Tomas is just pouring a mug for himself, and when Dan nods, he grabs a second mug while Kent gets himself a glass of water.

“I’m going to get started on that blog post,” Tomas says, even though Kent knows that wasn’t what he was planning. “If that’s okay?” He glances at Kent, who nods. He kind of wants to keep Tomas near, but he knows he’ll be okay, even if he can’t quite feel it yet. He appreciates that Tomas is giving him some space to talk to his teammate. Tomas gives him an encouraging smile—one that no doubt also means “we’ll talk about this later”. A moment later, he’s disappeared into the office and Kent finds himself in the living room with Dan.

“So you have a boyfriend,” Dan says. He still looks kind of shocked.

“Uh, yeah,” Kent says.

“Damn. I gotta say, you were kind of the last person I was expecting that from,” Dan says. “Sorry. No offense.”

Kent chuckles, feeling some of the tension ease. “None taken. I—Yeah. I’m not really… Not a lot of people know,” he says.

“Right, yeah. Guess that teaches me not to make assumptions.” Dan frowns in thought. “You know the team would be cool with it, right? I mean, everyone knows I’m bi.”

“Yeah,” Kent says. He takes a deep breath. He might as well give Dan a bit more of the story. “That’s, uh. That’s kinda why I’m here.”

“What do you mean?” Dan says.

“I mean, that’s why I got traded.”

Dan’s eyes widen. “Wait, you mean your team traded you away because you’re—what, gay? Bi?”

“No, not like that,” Kent says. “None of them know. I just—I wasn’t—They weren’t…” He trails off, unable to find the words. He swallows, takes a deep breath, and tries again. “It wasn’t like with the Schooners. Them being okay with you being in the locker room, even though they know you’re into guys? That’s… The guys with the Aces weren’t… It wasn’t like that.”

“Damn,” Dan says. “But they didn’t know about you?”

Kent shakes his head. “No, but they’d—Say stuff. About other teams, about refs. You know how it goes, they’d call them names, make jokes about it, it was…” He trails off again. “And Tomas worked for the Aces, and he’s out, and they’d… I don’t know, it was… It sucked. I wasn’t, uh, I wasn’t doing well.”

“Shit,” Dan says. He still looks shocked. “That’s fucked up, man.”

Kent laughs ruefully. “Yeah, pretty much. I, uh. I have.” He hesitates. Maybe he should stop, but it’s kind of nice to just lay it all out, to someone who he likes but who doesn’t know all this shit yet. “I have, uh, an anxiety disorder, I guess. Because… I dunno. It was messed up, and I wasn’t… Uh, I guess I kind of lied to myself about stuff. ‘Cause I couldn’t deal with, uh, being gay.” He runs his hand through his hair again.

Dan has fallen silent, but he looks sympathetic, and expectant, and it’s not hard to keep going.

“So, uh, I ended up going to a therapist,” he says, which is something that’s gotten a lot easier to say over the past couple of months. “After I started seeing Tomas. And she helped me figure out that I, you know, shouldn’t stay with the Aces. They wanted to sign me for another eight years. Thought I was for sure going to stay with them. But I made them trade me instead.”

“Damn,” Dan says again. “Are you… Doing better now?” he asks, a little uncertain.

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Yeah, it’s… I mean, I’m still kind of terrified of getting outed,” he admits, looking down at his hands. “And I’m… It feels unfair to Tomas, sometimes. ‘Cause I can’t… There’s stuff we can’t do because I’m worried about people seeing us. Stuff that would probably be fine, but I’m—I dunno.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m working on it.”

“Okay,” Dan says. He still looks sympathetic, and not like he thinks Kent has completely lost it, so that’s good. “Damn. That’s heavy shit, though, man. You know the team’s got your back, right? I mean, you don’t have to tell anyone, obviously, but they’re all cool about this stuff.”

“Yeah, I know,” Kent says. “It’s, uh, it’s great that you’re out.”

Dan smiles. “Yeah,” he says.

“When did you tell them?” Kent asks. He’s wondered before, but he’s never really felt like he could bring up anything related to Dan’s sexuality, for fear of getting asked questions in return.

“Maybe two years ago,” Dan says. “So, you know, I was closeted for a long time, too. I had a boyfriend way back, when I was still on my ELC, but that was before I was with the Schooners. Then I had a couple flings, but I started dating Annie before I even got to Seattle. I figured I’d just stay closeted, you know? People have a hard time dealing with the fact that people can be bi and in a committed relationship and it doesn’t just make them straight or something. So I thought I’d just avoid the hassle.”

“Yeah,” Kent says, because he thinks if he was bi, that’s what he’d have done. Maybe then he’d have ended up with some woman, and maybe he’d never have even admitted to himself that he was into men at all. He’s honestly not sure whether that life would be better or worse than what he’s got now.

“It was fine, at first, but it felt like I was lying. To just go along when everyone assumed I was straight, you know. And I knew a bunch of the guys would be supportive. Artie was still with the team then. He’s retired now. But he had a gay sister and he was really vocal about this stuff, you know? I think he had a big hand in making the team the way it is now. So I told him, and he was cool about it, so I told a couple other guys, and then I just, you know, stopped hiding it. The rest cottoned on eventually. I’ve had a couple guys say ignorant shit, at the start, but other people spoke up, and it hasn’t been much of a problem. I mean, there’s random comments here or there, guys don’t always know what they’re saying. But they mean well, and they listen when I tell them to quit it.”

“Does anyone outside the team know?” Kent asks. It’s enviable, the way Dan is so calm about all of this.

“I mean, my friends and family all know,” he says.

“No, I mean, in hockey,” Kent says.

“Oh,” Dan says. “A couple guys got traded, so they’re on different teams now. I guess it’s kind of an open league secret? And a couple people in PR know, just in case it gets out. I think Coach knows, too. And maybe a couple of the trainers.”

“Aren’t you worried… I mean, do you want to be, like, out?”

“Like Zimmermann?” Dan says. “Nah. I mean, I guess if it happens, it happens, but—I don’t really want the media attention, you know? And it’s different, I think, since I’ve got a wife. There’s a lot of fucked up stereotypes I don’t really want to deal with. Like, I don’t really need the media to call me a liar, or say I just came out for attention, or claim that this means I want to cheat on my wife, or that she’s a beard, or whatever else they’d come up with.”

“Yeah,” Kent says with a grimace.

“Besides, you know, when I speak out about LGBT stuff, people actually take me more seriously because they think I’m straight,” Dan says. “Which is fucked up, but you know, whenever Zimmermann says anything, everyone in the media goes, _oh well but that’s just because he’s bi_. So I figure I can speak up from where I’m at.”

“Huh, yeah,” Kent says. “Tomas gets a lot of that. The _you only say that because you’re gay_ stuff.”

“Yeah, it sucks.” They fall silent for a moment, and then Dan says, “I should get back home, I was just gonna drop off the plant so I’m sure Annie’s wondering where the hell I’m at.”

“Yeah, of course,” Kent says. “Sorry for dropping all this stuff on you.”

“No, I’m glad you told me.” Dan claps his shoulder. “I got your back, man. Anytime, all right?”

“All right,” Kent says. “Thanks.”

A minute later, he’s closed the door behind Dan. He leans his back against the closed door for a moment, taking a deep breath, and then he goes to find Tomas.

  
         -------------

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 6h

Home opener day is here!

  
         -------------  


 “ _All I do is win, win, win, no matter what!”_ Picks half-yells along with his speakers.

“Oh my god, you’re not still doing this,” Dan says, pulling at the straps of his helmet as he fist bumps Conor at the locker room door and heads to his stall.

“Yeah, dude, we know this is your favorite song by now,” Kent says.

Dan is clearly not the only one who had hoped Picks would give that song a rest in the new season; a couple of the others are glaring at him as they file into the locker room. It’s hard to really mind, though, when they just beat the Hawks in their home opener.

“Goal-scorer picks the music,” Picks says.

“Buddy, that might work today, but if that was the rule, we wouldn’t be hearing this song from you after every fucking game,” Conor says.

“Oh damn,” Gunne says, grinning at Conor.

Kent laughs and mouths along with the words, because he’s heard this song several dozen times by now and doesn’t actually hate it.

Bert steps into the locker room then, and the players gather around for a brief post-game huddle. There’s still a lot they need to work on—they spent far too much time stuck in the neutral zone and far too little time supporting Misha in goal—but after a win, all of their shortcomings are worries for the next day.

Sam, Anselm and Misha get called out to do post-game press. Picks switches the music to Britney, which is even better. Back at home, Tomas refuses to allow more than thirty seconds of Britney before he tells Kent to please switch to headphones.

“Nah, dude,” Leo says, two stalls down. “I saw it. He tried to catch up to Sam, but Sam was like twice as fast. Can't believe the Hawks have a D-man who skates like a girl. It’s fucking hilarious.”

“You say that,” Picks says, “but I’m pretty sure Marie-Philip Poulin skated circles around you at that autism charity skate last month, so I think I’d pick skating like a girl over skating like you.”

Kent laughs. “Yeah, dude, you wanna come say that to my junior girls’ team? Because I’ll stand back and watch them murder you.”

Leo rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever, the point is that dude can’t skate worth shit.”

“Agreed,” Picks says. “Hey Parse, you going for a workout?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Just a short one. You in?”

“Yup.” Picks takes off the last of his pads and pulls a shirt over his head. “All right, I’m ready, let’s go.”

  
         -------------

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 5h

Tonight, we take on the Houston Aeros at home!

  
         -------------

 

Kent blows out a heavy breath as he settles onto the bench. He just had a punishing shift—Gunne iced the puck when Kent’s line had already been on the ice for a full minute, and the Aeros won the faceoff and forced them to stay on another thirty seconds. His leg muscles are screaming at him, but they managed to get possession and dump the puck for a line change without giving up a goal.

“Holy hell,” Eli grumbles next to him, clearly still catching his breath too. “That was brutal.”

“Yup.” Kent takes a long drink of water and spits on the floor. It’s early in the second period, and the score is tied at one. On the ice, their fourth line is holding off the Aeros’ next try at some offense. Kent watches them and tries to visualize the best way to get the puck past the opposing goalie. “Hey, next time we’re on the ice with their second pair, dump it in toward the left,” he says. Eli contemplates this for a second, then nods.

Dan, sitting to Kent’s other side, is listening in as well. “Want me to draw Gutierrez away?” he says.

“Yeah.” Kent takes another sip as Sam’s line goes on. The Aeros have the momentum on their side, but the Schooners defenders ward off a dangerous attack. Sam and Karl try to shift to offense, but they don’t get through the neutral zone, and after some back and forth, the puck lands back in the Schooners’ zone, where Conor picks it up.

“Parson, Ruther, Hendricks,” Coach says.

Kent hops over the boards and onto the ice. A glance tells him that the Aeros have put their second pair on. Eli is already headed to where Conor is behind the net, and Conor drops a pass to him so he can get his own line change.

Eli crosses the line to the neutral zone, dodges an Aeros forward, and dumps the puck into the zone. Dan is already challenging Gutierrez for the best spot on the ice, so Kent speeds after the puck, reaching it just as the other Aeros defender does. He wins the puck battle, which was the plan, and passes to Eli before heading that way himself to get into the position he wants for a shot on goal.

The puck skitters off Eli’s stick and toward the boards, so Eli turns to get it. Sanders, one of the Aeros’ big, burly forwards—coming in to check Eli after he gained possession—is hot on his heels. The guy doesn’t slow, as he clearly should. Instead, he jams his shoulder right into Eli’s numbers and drives him into the boards. Kent can hear Eli’s gasp as his breath leaves him.

Kent has dropped his gloves before he can think it through. Sanders is at least half a foot taller, but Kent doesn’t care. He gives Sanders a quarter second to drop his gloves too—he does—and yanks him closer by his collar, landing a punch to his jaw before Sanders gets the first hit in.

Sanders’ first hit hurts like a bitch. It lands against the side of Kent’s head and he has to blink to clear it. He dodges the second and third, then gets in a punch against Sanders’ nose. Sanders’ next strike sends Kent sprawling to the ice, and a second later Sanders and two refs are all on top of him.

He’s dimly aware that the crowd is roaring, that his teammates are banging their sticks against the boards. When Sanders has been dragged off him and Kent gets back on his feet, everything is loud and bright. He thinks it’s the adrenaline.

“Dude,” Eli says from somewhere close by. He seems fine, then, so that’s something. Kent doesn’t get much of a chance to say something back, because he is, of course, being herded toward the penalty box. The other ref is skating Sanders to the box as well. Sanders holds his nose, blood dripping onto his fingers as he steps into the box.

Kent glares at Sanders through the glass that separates them. The refs talk briefly in the middle of the ice, then announce majors for fighting, a boarding call for Sanders, and an instigator penalty for Kent, which is… well, that’s fair, really.

Someone from the Schooners staff shows up with a towel, which is when he realizes he’s got a bleeding cut on his cheekbone. He lets the staffer attend to it.

“Dude, that was sick,” Eli says, suddenly besides him.

“What are you doing here?” Kent asks.

“Serving your minor.” Eli grins at him. “I didn’t know you fight.”

Kent snorts out a laugh. “I don’t, really. Too small.” This wasn’t his first fight, but it’s pretty close. He thinks this might’ve been his fourth, and he’s pretty sure he only won one of them. It’s a good thing teams don’t hire him to be an enforcer.

The refs are now bent over the ice where Kent had fought. Someone comes rushing out with equipment to clean it, because fighting is mostly tolerated in the NHL but blood on the ice is unseemly. “You landed some good hits, though,” Eli says.

“So did he,” Kent says, because with the adrenaline draining out of him, he’s starting to really feel where Sanders got him. His knuckles are hurting, too. When he glances down, he sees that two of them are split, the others red and raw. “Anyway, he deserved it. That was a dirty hit.”

“Yeah, I‘m feeling my ribs,” Eli says. Kent isn’t sure what his expression does, but Eli hastens to add, “I’m fine though. And I bet he’s going to get suspended.”

“Should’ve been a misconduct,” Kent grumbles, which may or may not be true. He’s seen worse boarding incidents that only got two-minute minors. But those weren’t against his rookie—who is not technically a rookie anymore, but still.

“Should’ve given us a powerplay, at the very least,” Eli says. “This whole instigator thing is fucking ridiculous.”

“Yup.” The ice has been cleaned, and the skaters take the ice for some four-on-four.

“Hey, Kent?” Eli says. “Thanks.”

The puck drops, and Kent leans forward so he doesn’t miss any of the play. “Anytime, kid.”

  
         -------------

 

**Kent [9:45 pm]:** i miss uuuu this roadie is too damn long

**Tomas [9:50 pm]:** I know :(

**Tomas [9:51 pm]:** Kit and I miss you too

**Tomas [9:51 pm]:** [PHOTO]

**Kent [9:51 pm]:** omggg are u wearing my jersey

**Tomas [9:52 pm]:** I missed you

**Kent [9:54 pm]:** <3 <3

**Kent [9:54 pm]:** ok but its the schooners one

**Tomas [9:55 pm]:** Last I checked that’s who you play for

**Kent [9:55 pm]:** yeah but u gotta put on the habs one & then u gotta call me

**Tomas [9:55 pm]:** …Now why would I do that mr Parson?

**Kent [9:56 pm]:** idk but just fyi this is how much im wearing atm

**Kent [9:56 pm]:** [PHOTO]

**Kent [9:57 pm]:** n mayb if u called me i cld tell u what id do to u if i were there

**Tomas [9:57 pm]:** one sec

  
         -------------

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 4h

After last night’s win, we’re hoping to bring in another win tonight in our back-to-back road games!

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 4h

The guys are on the ice for warmups in the last game in our roadie.

 

**Audrey Pine** @Audrey101 · 4h

Road back-to-backs are the worst

|

**Audrey Pine** @Audrey101 · 4h

At least they played the backup goalie in the first game so we can have Misha in net tonight!

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

GOAL!

|

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

Brose on the breakaway!

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

Hurricanes goal.

|

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

Back to even at 1-1. Sad, but still 30 minutes of gameplay to fix it.

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

GOAL!

|

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

Conor Hernandez shoots from the point on the assist from Norling!

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

GOAL!

|

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

Eli Ruther redirected it into the net for his 8th goal this season! Assist goes to Parson

|

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

This extends his points streak to 10 games, which is still 21 below his record.

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 1h

Game ends! We win it 3-1 and go home with a 3-1-1 record for the roadie!

  
         -------------

 

**Tomas [1:21 pm]:** Gonna head to the airport after I finish the column, what time are you home tonight?

**Kent [1:23 pm]:** coaching till 4:30 so like 5

**Kent [1:24 pm]:** the girls keep convincing me t stay late aftr practice

**Kent [1:24 pm]:** but ill try to b home on time, cant wait t meet emilie finally

  
         -------------

 

**Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 10m

Hey @TomasNadeau, thoughts on the Aeros goalie situation?

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 3m

They’re going to have a bad time. Lanford isn’t expected back until December and Howerich was barely passable as a backup last year.

|

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 2m

They could call someone up from the AHL but none of the guys there are ready to be a starter either. Their best bet is to try to trade, but not a lot of options on the goalie market.

 

Tomas puts his phone away when Émilie’s flight switches from _On-Time_ to _Landed_ on the notice boards overhead. He’s nervous, and a little angry with himself for it. It’s been a couple of months since he last saw Émilie. They’ve gone longer without seeing each other, but it’s never _felt_ this long. He knows it’s his fault that they’ve drifted apart, and he wishes he knew how to repair it.

Émilie keeps saying that he never tells her anything anymore. It isn’t true—she still knows more about his life than anyone other than Kent. But she might not be that wrong, either.

He fidgets and eventually gives in and goes back to Twitter. It’s the right decision, because of course it’s still a good twenty minutes before Émilie steps into the arrivals lounge. He doesn’t see her until she’s standing right in front of him.

“ _Yo!_ _Earth to Tomas,”_ she says, and she sounds amused.

“ _Émilie!”_ He hastily puts his phone away and pulls her in for a hug. She wraps her arms around him and holds him tight. “ _C’est bon de te voir_ ,” he says. “ _Comment était ton vol_?”

“ _It was fine,”_ she says. She takes a step back and looks him up and down. “ _You look good_ ,” she adds, and she sounds—surprised, maybe. Concerned.

He nods, struck silent by the distance that seems to yawn between them. It takes him long seconds before he finds words. “ _Yeah,_ ” he says. “ _Come on, my parking expires in ten minutes_.”

It’s quiet as they walk to the car, and Tomas hates it. It’s not that he minds silence—there’s something comforting in knowing how to be quiet with a friend, comfortable without having to speak. But this isn’t like that, because he keeps feeling like he _should_ say something.

When they’re in the car, she asks about his plans for his blog this season. He’s grateful for the question. He’s told her a little bit about this, but he’s been thinking more the past week—par for the course, making season plans when the season’s already started. Still, better late than never, and they spend the drive discussing his ideas for a recurring series on the NHL’s collaboration with women’s hockey leagues.

Traffic isn’t too bad, so they make it across the city in good time. It’s just past five when he turns onto their street.

“ _Damn_ ,” Émilie says when she catches sight of the villas on either side of the road, surrounded by immaculate lawns and well-trimmed trees and bushes. “ _Nice properties._ ” He can’t read her tone—she sounds impressed, maybe, but there’s also a hint of sarcasm. When he glances at her, she’s looking out the window so he can’t see her expression.

“ _This one’s ours_ ,” Tomas says as he turns off the street and fiddles with the tag on his key to get the garage door to open. He parks his truck in its usual spot. Carmen isn’t there, which means Kent is still at the rink, finishing up his coaching session.

Émilie hasn’t asked about Kent yet. His stomach feels heavy with anxiety over the two of them meeting, even though there’s little reason why they wouldn’t get along just fine. Kent says he’s looking forward to meeting Émilie, and Tomas has to trust that Kent knows what will make him anxious. But he’s still nervous that Kent will feel differently when Émilie is actually with them. What if he meets Émilie and doesn’t like her; what if he starts worrying again that his secret isn’t safe?

“ _Damn_ ,” Émilie says again as he leads her through the living room, up the stairs to the guest room so she can drop off her stuff.

Tomas isn’t sure what to make of that. It’s still weird to him, sometimes, that he lives in a house that cost more money than he’d normally ever have seen in his life—and that it took Kent maybe 25 games to earn it back. And it must be even weirder for Émilie to see him living in a huge mansion, when he’s always had modest apartments.

“ _What do you think?”_ he says.

“ _Yeah, it’s gorgeous. Nicely decorated and all.”_ She puts her stuff beside the bed and turns to him. “ _How do you feel about it?”_ There’s something cautious about her tone that he doesn’t understand.

He shrugs. “ _I mean, it’s still a bit weird,”_ he admits, leading the way back down the stairs. “ _But I like it. Even if I didn’t exactly expect to have a home like this.”_ He gestures at the living room as they walk in. Everything is pretty minimalist, which is how they both like it, but it’s still obvious that everything is _expensive_. Kent had done most of the furniture shopping, texting pictures of everything to Tomas as he wandered around stores with his designer because he got too anxious at the idea of bringing Tomas. But Tomas’ Habs posters are framed against one wall (it had taken surprisingly little to convince Kent to let him) and his books are on the shelves and scattered around the coffee table, which makes him feel like it’s his place, too.

He’d insisted on plants, too, and stocked up at a gardening center. The windowsills are full of succulents—he likes plants, but he’s not superb at watering them on time—and there’s a bonsai on the coffee table and a tall money plant in a corner. Kit likes to dig into its soil, so now there’s a pot with cat grass on one of her shelves and a running debate about who is responsible for cleaning up the mess when she gets into the money plant’s pot anyway.

Émilie settles on the couch, and Tomas gets them coffee and the cookies he’d tried his hand at baking when he was utterly uninspired for his column this morning.

“ _What’s with all that stuff?”_ Émilie says, gesturing at the odd configuration of shelves that span one wall of the sitting area and extend into the kitchen. Kit, with her usual impeccable sense of timing, chooses that moment to poke her head out from around a nook on one of the top shelves.

“ _That’s where Kit lives,_ ” Tomas says. “ _Apparently cats like to ‘live vertically’ or something. Kent calls it ‘_ catifying the house’ _. He got his interior designer to work with this girl from a community college who does a woodworking degree._ ”

Kit jumps down and cautiously approaches Émilie, who holds out a hand for Kit to sniff. “ _I guess I’m not surprised he spoils his cat_ ,” she says. Kit lets Émilie pet her for a moment, and then wanders off and climbs back onto one of her shelves.

Émilie always sounds so carefully neutral when she mentions Kent. Tomas wishes he was brave enough to confront it. He wants her to give him a chance, but he’s afraid to hear her say she dislikes him already. He really, really needs her and Kent to get along, if only to put Kent’s mind at ease about the fact that Émilie knows they’re dating.

“ _Yeah, he loves her to death,”_ he says. “ _Spoiling is how he shows affection.”_

He’s trying to think of something else to say when he hears keys in the door, then Kent’s customary, “Honey, I’m home!” It’s bad that Tomas feels relieved at having Kent there, just because it might cut through the awkwardness of hanging out with Émilie. God, she’s his _best friend_ , and he fucked everything up between them.

A second later, Kent comes into the living room. Kit leaps down and twists around his ankles so he almost trips over. The familiar sight still brings a smile to Tomas’ lips every time.

“Hey,” Tomas says, and gets up to give Kent a hug. Kent said this morning that he was okay with showing affection in front of Émilie, but Tomas is still a little surprised when Kent kisses him briefly before stepping up to Émilie to shake her hand.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. “It’s great to meet you. How was your flight?”

He doesn’t look or sound too anxious, Tomas decides, and it makes him relax a little. Maybe this will go well.

“Yeah, fine.” But she sounds a good deal more reserved than a moment ago—so maybe it won’t go well after all. Tomas knows he shouldn’t be micromanaging their introduction, but he still feels like he’s hovering, like he should say or do something so they’ll get off to the best start they can.

Kent kicks off his shoes and picks Kit up to hug her before sitting down on the couch beside Tomas. Kit settles down on his lap immediately, purring loudly.

“How was practice?” Émilie asks.

“I was coaching, actually.” Kent runs a hand down Kit’s back. He leans sideways a little bit so his upper arm is touching Tomas’. They usually cuddle up on the couch for a while after Kent gets home from practice. This isn’t quite the same, but it’s close. “It was pretty good, but man, these girls are a handful. There’s days I really miss my Vegas kids.”

Tomas has heard this before. Kent has a couple of spitfires on his Thursday team who occasionally like to make his life difficult. He talks a bit about the trouble one of the girls got into today, and he looks pretty relaxed—more so than Émilie, who still looks almost distrustful.

Kent asks Émilie about work, and she does relax a little as they discuss her work at the CBC and eventually drift inevitably to discussing the Habs’ start of the season. The Habs aren’t off to a bad start, which means Tomas can actually talk about it without his mood immediately turning foul. Both of them know this, and they’re apparently not above making fun of him for it.

“Yeah, I’m surprised he’ll still date me even when I’m not a Habs fan,” Kent says, winking at Tomas. Tomas bites his lip because he still gets butterflies whenever Kent gives him that look.

“Well,” Émilie says, cutting through the warm feeling in Tomas’ chest, “I hear you’re still willing to wear Habs gear under the right circumstances.”

“Émilie,” Tomas hisses, because—yes, he told Émilie what Kent did for his birthday, and he’d expected her to tease him mercilessly, which she had, but he hadn’t expected her to _bring it up to Kent_.

Kent squints at Tomas and says, “I’m pretty sure I made you swear not to tell anyone about that,” but he doesn’t sound angry or overly anxious or even very surprised. He looks back at Émilie and smirks and adds, “I think this means I can gossip about how much he liked it.” He still looks relaxed, but there’s a tremor in his voice that suggests he _is_ anxious, and Tomas feels abruptly guilty—he should’ve told Émilie not to bring it up, or he should’ve just not given Émilie the deets in the first place.

Kent stands up and Tomas feels colder immediately, even though they were barely touching. “All right, I’m gonna get some dinner together,” Kent says. “I’ll leave you two to catch up. Guessing there’s a lot of gossip you want to catch up on.”

“Yeah, as if Tomas talks to me,” Émilie says, and Tomas thinks she maybe didn’t mean to say it, or at least meant to say it under her breath.

“Ém,” Tomas starts, but he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.

Kent frowns. “What are you talking about? You’re his best friend.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Émilie says, and now she just sounds sad.

Nobody says anything for a few tense seconds. Kent looks pensively at Tomas. Tomas looks away and at the floor because he can’t look either of them in the eye right now, and he hates it.

“Dinner,” Kent says eventually, and disappears to the kitchen.

“Ém, I’m sorry—” Tomas starts.

“No, it’s fine, I shouldn’t have—It’s fine,” she says. “Did you see yesterday’s game?”

Tomas meets her gaze, and she looks as sad as he feels. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I did.”

  
         -------------

 

Dinner is less uncomfortable than Tomas expects. Émilie asks Kent about his sister, which is always a good way to get him to talk. Then Kent asks about Émilie’s siblings, and since she has five of them, that takes them through the rest of the meal.

They end up playing board games and drinking wine, and it’s nice—something different than staying in with Kent or being out with friends. It’s relaxing to just be home with Kent and Émilie, even if he still feels a little awkward. Kent seems—not tense, himself, but distracted, maybe. He’s quiet through games of _Carcassonne_ and _Ticket to Ride_ and _Settlers,_ though he’s still damn competitive even when he isn’t saying much.

Tomas expects Kent to be the first to go to bed, but it’s Émilie who starts yawning just after 10 and disappears to the guest room not long after. Kent puts _Settlers_ back into its box. “Want another drink?” he asks, pouring himself another glass of wine.

“You’re not going to bed yet?” Tomas asks. Kent stays up with him occasionally, but almost never before game days.

Kent shakes his head. “I wanna talk about something,” he says, and Tomas feels nerves bolt through him as he remembers what Émilie had said before, about that thing with the Habs jersey.

“I was just wondering—” Kent pours a second glass and pushes it toward Tomas. Tomas sips it, almost automatically. “Émilie said you never tell her anything.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have told her about that thing with the Habs jersey. I won’t—You know she won’t tell anyone, right? And I—”

“You’re reassuring me,” Kent says. He’s looking at Tomas with a little frown on his face that Tomas can’t quite grasp the meaning of.

“Yeah?” he says, uncertain now.

Kent taps his fingers against the stem of his glass, thoughtful. “You know you can—” he starts, but then stops, starts again. “Is it true? That you don’t tell her anything?”

“I mean—I do tell her some stuff?” Tomas says, and it comes out uncertain. He doesn’t know where this conversation is going, but it feels like a trap, like if he says the wrong thing, he’s going to make Kent upset or anxious. “But I haven’t—I haven’t told her about your anxiety or anything. I know how important it is to you that people don’t know—you know.”

Kent reaches out across the table and touches Tomas’ hand briefly. “ _Mon chou_ ,” he says, his voice gentle. “Émilie isn’t _people._ Émilie’s your best friend.”

“I know that,” Tomas says, getting frustrated now. “What are you trying to say?”

Kent rubs at his face. “Tomas, I was thinking—who do you talk to about us?”

“Just Émilie,” he says. “Nobody else, I swear.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Kent says, and Tomas still doesn’t know where he’s going with this.

“Isn’t it?” he says, and he can hear his tone come out snappy.

“Not if you don’t actually _talk_ to her,” Kent says. “Do you—you’ve told your parents about us though, right?”

Tomas still feels wrong-footed. He nods, then shakes his head. “Just that I’m dating someone.”

“Christ,” Kent says. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Tomas’ voice comes out almost resigned, and he doesn’t even really know why.

“For not noticing,” Kent says. “Tomas—You can tell Émilie. About—about whatever. Including—” He waves a hand around. “My anxiety and shit.”

“Won’t that make it worse?” Tomas says skeptically.

Kent looks at him for a moment. “ _Mon chou_ ,” he says again. Tomas rarely hears him break out the pet names twice in one conversation. “I’m not the only person in this relationship whose feelings matter.”

“I know that,” Tomas says. He does know that, of course he does.

“You shouldn’t be protecting me at your own expense,” Kent says. Émilie had said something like that, he knows, back when he told her he was dating Kent. He—has maybe been doing that.

“Yeah, but…”

Kent shakes his head. “Émilie is worried about you,” he says. “And I think I should’ve been worried too. Because I didn’t…” He pauses, takes a sip of wine. Tomas wants to protest, that of course Kent doesn’t need to be worried. But something makes him wait, until Kent says, “You know, I didn’t really think about it, but—I talk to the guys all the time. At practice, at lunch, before games. All day, when we’re on a roadie. And you work from home.”

“So?” Tomas says, and it comes out defensive even though he doesn’t mean it to.

“So,” Kent says. “When’s the last time you had someone over to the house?”

Tomas shrugs. “I don’t know.” And that sounds pretty pathetic as he says it. He _does_ have friends, he just… “But I go to other people’s places. I go out for drinks all the time.”

“Right,” Kent says. “You just lie to them about where you live and whether you’re dating, right?” Tomas opens his mouth, to—what, defend himself? Protest? He doesn’t know. Kent shakes his head and says, “You need to tell people about us, Tomas. Not—” He lets out a slow breath. “Not everyone, obviously, but you need—to talk to Émilie, and to have a couple people you can, you know, have over. Without feeling like you need to hide me.”

“But what about you?” Tomas says.

Kent meets his eyes. “I’m going to deal with it,” he says, and he sounds sure even though his voice trembles a little. “Just…” He pauses, takes another deep breath. “Just, uh, keep me updated on what you decide.”

“You’re literally already anxious about this,” Tomas says.

“So?” Kent challenges. “I know I’ve asked a lot of you since we started dating, but it’s not your job to always make things as easy as they can be for me. Especially if it comes at the expense of _your_ happiness. That isn’t worth it to me. I don’t want—I don’t want you to get socially isolated because you’re trying to protect me, okay? And I—I’m telling people. Or at least I told Dan. And I know it’s different, but… I could tell him just on a whim, and it’s not that I think _you_ should be doing that, but I also don’t want you to feel like you can’t tell anyone at all. So just… tell Émilie about this stuff. And… I don’t know. Get her to help you sort out who else you want to tell, maybe. I trust you, and she’s—you trust her. So just figure out who else of your friends should know. And for god’s sake, tell your parents about me.”

“Are you sure?” he can’t help but ask.

“ _Yes_ ,” Kent says. “Yes, I’m sure. I was convinced your parents already knew, anyway. And I’m sure as fuck convinced you should _have friends,_ Tomas. Just—God. Come here, I need to hug you, you idiot.”

By the time Tomas pushes his chair back, Kent has already circled the table and pulls him close. Tomas slips his arms around Kent’s waist and rests his forehead against his shoulder. 

“I’m really sorry,” Kent says. “For not seeing what you were doing to yourself, you ridiculous man.”

“I just…” Tomas doesn’t know how to finish that sentence, so he doesn’t.

“I know,” Kent says anyway. “I love you so much, you know that?”

All of a sudden, Tomas feels ready to cry. “I know,” he mumbles.

“Good.” Kent kisses his temple. “Come to bed with me?”

“Yeah,” Tomas says, because he wants to curl up in Kent’s arms. He’s ready for this day to be over, and tomorrow, he’s going to fix things with Émilie.

Kent grabs his hand, squeezes it, and tugs him toward the stairs.

  
         -------------

Émilie is making herself breakfast in the kitchen when Tomas wanders in.

“ _Kent said to tell you he’s off to the rink_ ,” she says, staring pensively at the collection of breakfast cereals in the cupboard before finally picking one.

“ _Cool_ ,” Tomas says, hiding a yawn behind his hand. He glances at the clock. Kent left early, but he often does on game days. Giving a good example to the younger players. Tomas doesn’t think Kent was ever a bad captain, but he’s a better leader here already than he ever was in Vegas, even though he doesn’t have a C.

“ _Coffee?”_ Émilie gestures toward the coffee pot.

“ _Oh my god, you’re an angel,_ ” Tomas says, because the minutes after he gets up and before he’s made coffee are his least favorite of every day.

“ _Poor you, doesn’t Kent ever make you coffee?_ ” she asks, and her tone is light but he can still read the concern. God, he’s really worried her, hasn’t he? He knew that, but he’s been ignoring it, and he needs to stop.

He shakes his head, smiles at her a little. “ _He doesn’t drink it himself. The coffee he makes is shit._ ”

She chuckles and heads out to the living room. Tomas pours a mug and follows her once he’s grabbed himself a bowl of cereal. He’s not even actually that tired, even though he’s pre-caffeine. It had taken him a while to fall asleep last night, but it had been pretty early when they went to bed.

They eat breakfast quietly on the couch, the TV on in the background, because Émilie’s known him long enough to be aware he’s not good company for a while after getting up. When the caffeine has started to kick in and both their bowls are empty, Tomas gets both of them another mug of coffee. Once he’s settled beside her again, he glances at the TV.

“ _Can I turn it off?_ ” he asks.

Émilie raises her eyebrows. “ _Sure,”_ she says.

When the screen’s gone dark, he meets her eyes. “ _So,_ ” he says. “ _I—I know we haven’t been talking as much lately. And I know it’s my fault._ ” She opens her mouth, but Tomas holds up his hand. “ _I was… I was talking to Kent last night,”_ he continues. “ _And he said… It doesn’t really matter what he said,_ ” he amends, because he’s probably going to have to go into the whole situation later, but he doesn’t want to just yet. “ _I wanna tell you more about why he wanted to get traded.”_

_“Okay,”_ Émilie says, cautious and still looking concerned.

“ _I gotta warn you, though_ ,” Tomas says, smiling a little ruefully, “ _it’s kind of a long story.”_

  
         -------------

“ _This is gorgeous_ ,” Émilie says, sinking down onto the grass. Tomas follows her example, even though it rained yesterday and everything is still a little damp. They just climbed up the steepest part of their hiking trail, if Tomas’ printed route is to be believed, and he’s ready to relax for a moment before they start finding their way down again.

The grass stretches out in front of them, sloping down gently at first and then more steeply, so they can see Seattle stretched out in the distance before them. It’s a windy day, and big fluffy clouds hurry through the blue sky over the city.

“ _It really is,”_ he says, a little belatedly.

The sun peeks from behind a cloud, warming Tomas’ back. Émilie shuffles over and leans against him. It’s quiet, but Tomas feels comfortable this time. He cleared the air immensely, yesterday, and in retrospect he can’t believe he thought it was okay to hide so much from Émilie, from everyone.

“ _Tell me about that time you texted me that you two had a fight_ ,” Émilie says, suddenly.

It takes him a moment to remember when that had been, because he hasn’t thought of what happened at Divo as a ‘fight’ since the day after, when he found out what was going on with Kent. “ _Oh_ ,” Tomas says. He resists the impulse to say it was nothing. It _wasn’t_ nothing, and Kent had reassured him again last night that he could talk to Émilie about anything.

He shifts a little, and Émilie sits up. She looks at him expectantly, but there’s caution in her expression too, like she half expects him to refuse. He has a lot left to tell her, and a lot of trust to rebuild.

Tomas stands up and grabs Émilie’s hand to pull her up too. “ _Come on_ ,” he says. “ _I’ll tell you while we walk back.”_

  
         -------------

Kent is home when they get back from their hike that afternoon. He’s stretched out on the couch with Kit purring on his chest, a re-run of an old _Survivor_ season playing on the TV.

“Hey,” he says. “Good hike?”

“Yeah, great,” Émilie says. She’s warmed up a lot to Kent, and she hasn’t even really talked to him much since he had a game last night.

“I think we’ve earned the Sprite you’ve been craving for half the hike,” Tomas says teasingly, pushing Émilie toward the couch. “Let me grab that for you, and then I just remembered I need to call the _Sports Illustrated_ people before the end of office hours.”

“Still haven’t heard back from them?” Kent says. He nudges Kit onto his lap and sits up a little.

“No, and if they do want that piece for the issue they mentioned, I really should’ve heard from them by now,” Tomas says. “I mean, I’m not super familiar with print deadlines, but if it’s similar to _Out_ , the deadline would probably be about two weeks from now. I really hope it didn’t fall through. If I get into _SI_ , the exposure is huge.”

Kent frowns. “Yeah, it would be a shame to lose that. You go on and call them—Émilie, I’ll get you your drink.”

Tomas leaves them to it and heads to the office to find his _SI_ contact info.

“Yeah, hi, it’s Tomas Nadeau,” he says, after he’s gone through two secretaries and found his way to the right person in the office. “I was calling because I talked to you a couple of weeks ago about a commission.”

“Oh, yeah, the hockey heroes through the ages piece, right?” the guy says. “Yeah, so the deadline’s tomorrow at noon, like I said in the email—Did you want to submit it already? Because people sometimes have trouble with our online system for sending stuff in, but all the details should be in that same email, the one with all the information about the assignment.”

Tomas narrowly avoids dropping his phone. Shit, shit, shit. He definitely never got an email, but if he says that now, they might pull him from the assignment entirely, and that’s a lot of lost income and a _lot_ of lost exposure. _Tomorrow at noon_ echoes around his mind. He is in _so_ much trouble. “Uhhh,” he says. “Right. Uh, could you re-send that email? Because I think there’s been a problem with it, so I’m—having trouble with the submission process.” God, that piece was supposed to be three thousand words, and it’s not like he can just make something up when it’s a fucking _historical analysis_ , those require facts and figures and he is in _deep shit_.

“Yeah, of course,” the guy says. Tomas holds his phone between his ear and shoulder as he searches his inbox and his spam folder and his email archives, and he for sure never received anything from _Sports Illustrated_. “All right, I’ve sent it to you again,” he adds after a second, and a _ping_ alerts Tomas that it did arrive, this time at least.

“ _Merci_ ,” Tomas says, and doesn’t realize until he hung up that he switched languages.

He stares at the email for a long minute. It’s definitely there: the phrases _3500-4000 words_ and _analysis_ and _greatest NHL players in every decade_ and _October 25 th, 12:00 pm (noon). _He swallows the bile rising in his throat. He can do this—he’s going to _have_ to do this. Now he just needs to go tell Kent and Émilie that they’re on their own for the next eighteen hours. God, this is the worst—Émilie is leaving tomorrow night, and this means he’s losing half the time he had left with her.

“Hey, what did they—What’s wrong, _mon chou_?” Kent says, sitting up straight as soon as he catches sight of Tomas’ expression.

“ _J’ai un problème,”_ he says, because there’s some comfort in French during terrible times.

“ _Qu’est-ce qui a?_ ” Kent says, standing up.

“ _Y’ont toute chié,_ ” he says. “ _He said he sent me an email, but I don’t think—The deadline is_ tomorrow _. Tomorrow at fucking noon_.”

“ _Crisse,”_ Kent says, which is definitely a habit he’s picked up from Tomas. “ _Can you still make that?”_

_“I don’t know,”_ he says. _“Maybe, but it’s—I need to do a bunch of research on top of actually writing it, so I’m not—I’m gonna do it, but I can’t… I’m going to have to leave you two to it because I’m going to binge-write this for eighteen hours right now_.”

“ _Right_ ,” Kent says. “ _Tell me what to do_.”

“What?” Tomas says.

“I mean, I know can’t write worth shit,” Kent says. “But I can do research. Who’s—I mean, I’m the greatest hockey player of this decade, obviously,” he says.

Tomas manages a smile. “I was going to go with McDavid,” he says.

“Lies,” Kent says, smirking. “But just—what’s the other ones? Give me names, I’ll get you the stats and the stories, then you only have to do the writing. Come on, it’s eighteen whole hours, we can totally do that.”

“There’s three of us,” Émilie says. “Let’s do it.”

Ten minutes later, he’s jamming out the opening paragraphs of the biggest rush job of his life. Kent is on the bean bag chair in the corner, with a list of names and five different hockey data websites, and Émilie is going through footage of games from the sixties.

“You need to look into getting era-adjusted stats for some of them,” Tomas tells Kent between sentences.

“Yeah, I know, I got it,” Kent says.

“You wanna do Rocket Richard for the 40s?” Émilie says.

“I’m not sure yet—I’m working backwards,” Tomas says. “But probably. I’ll let you know.”

He isn’t sure how much later it is by the time the doorbell rings. “I ordered takeout,” Kent says, and he disappears to return a few minutes later with food from Tomas’ favorite takeout place.

“You’re the best,” Tomas says, and Kent presses a kiss to his forehead before grabbing his laptop again.

Tomas has written some sort of draft of an introduction and four decades’ worth of fantastic hockey players by the time Kent starts yawning. A glance at the clock tells him it’s almost midnight, ages after Kent’s usual bedtime.

He gives it another hour—which takes him through his 70s hockey hero—before he says, “You should go to bed.”

Émilie looks up from her laptop, but goes back to work as soon as she sees he’s talking to Kent.

“What?” Kent says, glancing up from where he’s making era-adjustment calculations for the sixties. “But we’re not done.”

“You’re not pulling an all-nighter with me,” Tomas says.

“Of course I am,” Kent says.

“You have a game tomorrow,” Tomas says.

“I know that,” Kent says. “It’s fine. It’s just one night and it’s just one game. Do you want this guy’s points per game era-adjusted, or just his career totals?”

Tomas gives up on trying to dissuade Kent for now. “Uh, both, if you can.”

“Sure,” Kent says.

Another hour and a half later, Tomas is finally moving on to the fifties. It gets harder with every decade he goes back to find the information he needs and craft it into a coherent story. He starts when Kent is suddenly beside him, pushing a mug into his hands. The smell of coffee makes Tomas feel more awake before he’s even drank any.

“Thanks,” he says as he accepts the mug. He looks away from his screen for a moment so he doesn’t actually end up permanently damaging his eyes.

Kent hands Émilie her coffee too—she’s looking at players from the 20s and 30s, trying to determine who he can feature—and then wraps his fingers around the third mug.

“Is that—are you drinking coffee?” Tomas asks.

“Yeah,” Kent says. He takes a sip and pulls a face at the taste. “Oh my god, I forgot how gross this stuff is. I hope _Sports Illustrated_ is worth it.”

“You’re the best,” Tomas says. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Kent says. He glances at Émilie as soon as the words are out, but she’s still bent over her laptop. “Uh, I should—get back to those stats,” he says. When Tomas looks at Émilie, he can just see the quirk of a smile on her lips.

“I’m going to make you go to bed at some point,” Tomas says. He takes a long sip of coffee, and finds that it isn’t half bad, considering who made it.

“Too late, I just had coffee,” Kent says. “And I don’t see you bossing Émilie around.”

“Émilie doesn’t let me. Besides, if she was as incapable of all-nighters as you are, she would’ve gone to bed hours ago.”

“I’m perfectly capable of all-nighters.” Kent hides a yawn behind his coffee mug.

Tomas rolls his eyes. “Just get back to your stats.”

He writes about the fifties, then the forties and thirties and twenties. Émilie still looks mostly awake. Kent, after a brief caffeine-induced revival, is looking more bleary-eyed by the minute. He’s still doggedly looking up statistics and personal life stories of long-dead hockey players, even after Tomas has tried four times to make him go to bed.

By the time Tomas makes it to the first decade of the NHL, he’s starting to have faith that he can actually deliver a half-decent piece to _Sports Illustrated_. The sun isn’t up yet, which means he might even have time for proper proofreading.

“ _Tomas_ ,” Émilie says quietly from behind him.

“ _Yeah?_ ” He turns, and she gestures at the corner.

Kent is fast asleep on the bean bag, his head tilted to the side. His laptop is balanced precariously on his thighs, the screen gone dark.

Tomas snorts out a laugh. “ _Told you he can’t pull an all-nighter,_ ” he says, voice low so he doesn’t wake him.

“ _Are you going to wake him up?_ ” she asks.

“ _Nah,_ ” Tomas says. “ _I’ve got time to do the last bit of stats. If we wake him, he’ll insist on doing it himself and then he’ll really be terrible on the ice tonight._ ”

Émilie rubs at her eyes. “ _Right. I—He’s really sweet, you know?_ ”

Tomas stares at her, not sure what to do with this declaration after he’s been up for twenty-four hours. “ _I know_ ,” he says.

“ _Yeah, I didn’t_ ,” she says. “ _I was… before you told me all that stuff yesterday, you—I didn’t know why you weren’t talking to me, and I thought… It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I’ve looked up the last couple of reports, they’re in the printer. So I’m going to sleep for…_ ” She glances at her watch. “ _Three hours while you finish this up, and then you’ve got a pair of eyes that’s had at least some sleep to proofread it._ ”

“ _You’re amazing,_ ” he says. “ _I owe you one_.”

“ _Yeah, yeah_ ,” she says. She jabs a thumb in Kent’s direction. “ _Don’t forget to wake him up for practice._ ”

Tomas winces. Kent needs to leave the house in about ninety minutes, and Tomas really doubts that the force of Kent’s morning-person attitude will hold up under that little sleep. “ _Yeah, I won’t_ ,” he says. A moment later, Émilie is gone, and it’s just him, his sleeping boyfriend, and his almost-finished article.

  
         -------------  


**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 59m

Tonight’s blog post is postponed due to a scheduling error. Sorry folks!

 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 4m

Final score: Avalanche 4, Schooners 2.

  
         -------------  


**Kent [10:53 pm]:** when i get home i want a hug & 14 hrs of sleep

**Tomas [10:54 pm]:** That can be arranged <3

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C’est bon de te voir. Comment était ton vol?” = It's good to see you. How was your flight?  
> “J’ai un problème,” = I've got a problem.  
> “Qu’est-ce qui a?” = What is it? (This is the most Quebecois French sentence y'all!)  
> “Y’ont toute chié,” = They fucked up. (or maybe this one! Slaaang)
> 
> There is only one more chapter after this!! Perfect timing-- I'll be uploading the last chapter on my birthday :D
> 
> However, I do have an epilogue, for those who (like me) can't quite let go of these two. It's fairly long and it consists of multiple parts, so I will probably be uploading it as SEPARATE WORKS in this series (a one-shot and a three-chapter work, in all likelihood). So subscribe to the series and/or keep an eye on it in late June/early July!
> 
> Come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, everyone: The very last chapter of From The Ground Up. I can’t believe it’s done!!! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking with me (and with Kent!) throughout this journey. Your comments and kudos have meant the world to me. 
> 
> Previously on From The Ground Up: hockey, pain, confrontation, joy, sex, anxiety, therapy, friendship, and love. This week: more of all of that, because life has all of that. 
> 
> My eternal thanks to C for all her help with this fic (and for, you know, everything else) and to J for proofreading, and to omgquebecplease for all the French help throughout this story, and to everyone who commented or gave me kudos. 
> 
> ALSO: my amazing wonderful girlfriend got me commissioned art of Kent and Tomas for my birthday today!!! I only just saw it this morning and don't have a digital version yet, but it's absolutely gorgeous and I will make sure to add the link as soon as I can :D
> 
> Here it goes: the last chapter of From the Ground Up. Enjoy.

 

 

Tomas knows what’s up as soon as he sees Kent’s face. “You bought me something,” he accuses, swiveling his chair away from his screen. His ESPN article is almost done anyway, and it doesn’t have to go up until tomorrow.

“No,” Kent says. He leans against the doorpost, far too nonchalantly.

“Lies,” Tomas says. He gets up from behind his desk to pull Kent in for a kiss. “Come on, what is it?”

“If it helps, it wasn’t expensive.” Kent wraps his arms around Tomas’ waist and cuddles up close, his body relaxing. 

“You and I have different definitions of expensive, and you know it.” 

“Stop complaining.” Kent grabs Tomas’ hand and pulls him to the kitchen.

There’s a bouquet of roses on the kitchen counter. They’re a mix of red and yellow, with sprigs of green in between. Tomas brings Kent to a stop and pulls him around so they’re facing each other. “You got me roses?”

“Obviously,” Kent says, smirking.

Tomas steps forward to hide his smile against Kent’s shoulder. “I didn’t forget our anniversary, did I?” he says. He knows the answer, because they celebrated their anniversary three weeks ago. 

“No,” Kent says. “Well. I mean, I kind of—it’s a year ago that we, uh, went on our first date. And it didn’t really go well, obviously, so it’s not like we should be celebrating that, but—I don’t know. I was thinking about it today, and I just, uh, thought of how great you are, and I wanted to—you know.” He gestures at the flowers. 

“God, I love you,” Tomas says. 

Kent tips his head up to kiss him. “I love you too,” he says, between kisses. It’s not long before things get heated and Kent says, “Bedroom?”

“Bedroom,” Tomas says. 

   
         -------------

 **Tomas [2:15 pm]:** My head hurts and as it turns out we’re out of Tylenol

 **Kent [2:31 pm]:** leaving the rink now, ill pick some up, hold on <3

   
         -------------

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau  **·** 3h

Remind me why I keep choosing blog topics that require mountains of research

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau  **·** 3h

I could totally just write another post about how well the Habs are doing

|

 **Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 2h

The Tomas Nadeau blog: Come for the sharp analysis, stay for the Habs stanning

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 2h

That should be my tagline 

   
         -------------

Khadija’s hijab is bright yellow today. It looks nice against her dark skin. Kent gently nudges Kit off the sheets of paper beside his laptop so he can hold them up for Khadija to see. “I actually did homework for once,” he announces. 

He’d never really gotten into the habit of filling out her worksheets. He’s pretty sure Khadija had given up on it, since she’s stopped asking for the worksheets and instead just asks him the questions during their sessions. She looks pleasantly surprised now.

“Completed homework from Kent Parson,” she teases. “Miracles never cease. What brought this on?”

He sobers up right away, because he hasn’t had the easiest week. “Dunno, just—I had a panic attack and a couple near ones,” he says, plucking at the seam of his jeans. “Uh, Tomas had a friend over—Levi. And he actually knew about me already, Tomas told him last month and I was okay with it then, but I just—I don’t know. I was tired, we had a couple bad games, and so meeting him… It went fine, and all, but afterwards, I don’t know. I, uh, I talked to Swoops, and that helped, but, yeah. Anyway, it was like, last Thursday, right after we talked, so I figured I should write some stuff down or whatever, so I wouldn’t forget.”

He doesn’t regret giving Tomas permission to tell his friend. It was obviously long overdue, and it was the right thing to do, and he knows he can get through a week like this. He’s got Tomas, and Swoops, and he talked to Dan a little, and he has Khadija. That doesn’t make it suck any less in the moment.

“Okay,” Khadija says. “I’m sorry to hear you’ve been struggling. Let’s talk about it—Why don’t you tell me what you wrote down?”

   
         -------------

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

I had the weirdest day at work today. It was pretty busy even though it was still early. I was serving a bunch of tables. I’d already had like half a dozen cranky customers who were dicks and then refused to tip well, so I was pretty damn frustrated. 

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

I had two tables going on that are relevant to this story. One table is these two guys and one of them is wearing indoor sunglasses, which was the first reason I suspected he might be famous. Second reason? Totally gorgeous. Blond, tan, fit. (Maybe a model?) 

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

So I had this other table with a bunch of kids. Maybe thirteen or fourteen.  These two tables were right next to each other. The two guys were having dinner, the kids had just arrived and were ordering.

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

They were really lovely and polite, but they had some weird dynamic going on where I took orders for all of them, except when I got to this one guy, someone else would order for him and he’d look pleased/embarrassed. 

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

Eventually they mention that it’s his birthday, this had been his favorite place to eat with his dad except his dad died last year, and they all saved up on their allowances to treat him to a meal there for his birthday.

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

I didn’t really have time to hear this story (see above) but it was just really touching and sweet. Birthday kid teared up, all his friends were all supportive. I told them they were great friends and went back to work feeling slightly better about the world.

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

I served the table of kids and the possible-celebrity table and my other tables. The kids counted their cash and decided they had enough to order dessert. (They were accounting for tips; early reports suggest Gen Z tips like millennials and not like baby boomers.)

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

Finally, the kids had ordered and eaten dessert and were asking for their check. I went over to get it. The model/celebrity flags me down. I figured he and his friend wanted another drink.

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

Model guy says, “Did those kids just ask for the check? I want to pay it.”

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

I blinked at him a bit, and he just smiled at me. I asked if he was sure. He said yes. I asked if he wanted to know how much it was for before he agreed to pay. He said no. I brought him the kids’ check. He barely glanced at it, just gave me his card. 

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

I asked if he wanted me to let them know he’d paid for them. He said no, he was fine just being anonymous, just wanted to help them help their friend. Then he winked at me. Folks, I’m ace as fuck, but that wink was something. 

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

I processed the payment, then went to tell the kids that their bill had been covered. They didn’t believe it. I told them again. One of them goes, “Oh my god, Ricky, now we can get you that video game too!”

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

My heart melted. Pretty sure Model Guy’s heart melted too, judging by the look on his face. The kids left, all excited. Everyone’s day was made. My faith in humanity was restored. 

|

 **Diana Young** @SeattleSister · 3h

Oh, and Model Guy also tipped me 50%. May the modelling gods smile upon him. 

   
         -------------   


**Kent [2:04 pm]:** gonna hang out w picks

 **Kent [2:05 pm]:** hows the blog post going

 **Tomas [2:09 pm]:** Almost done

 **Tomas [2:10 pm]:** You gonna be home for dinner?

 **Kent [2:11 pm]:** let u kno by 6

 **Tomas [2:11 pm]:** Ok, have fun <3

   
         -------------   


“How are you so much worse at this than at the previous version?” Picks asks. “All the controls are the same.” 

“I don’t know, man.” Kent pulls a face at the screen, where Madden NFL 20 is showing Picks’ players celebrating. “Just feels different. Are you sure we can’t just go back to 19?”

“Host picks the game,” Picks says. “If you want to choose, you gotta invite me over to your place.”

Kent has been to Picks’ house at least half a dozen times now. Picks has angled for his own invitation before, but he’s never outright asked, as if he’s sensed Kent’s hesitation.

“Yeah, yeah. Some other time,” Kent says. He has Dan over pretty often, and a bunch of the rookies came by one time when Tomas was out of town for work. But other than that, he just goes to other people’s places. He’s working on expanding the circle of teammates who know about Tomas. Or rather, he’s working on being all right with more people knowing, and then he’s going to expand the circle. He talked it over with Tomas not too long ago, and Picks is top of his list.

A curious glance from Picks tells him that the guy definitely knows something is up. Maybe he should just bite the bullet. He trusts Picks.

“Can you keep a secret?” Kent asks.

Picks raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, sure. What is it? Do you still live with your mom or something?”

Kent huffs out a laugh. He can only imagine how that would go. “No,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “I live with my boyfriend.”

Picks’ eyebrows go up even more. “Damn, really?”

“Yeah, really,” Kent says. 

“Cool,” Picks says. 

Kent breathes a sigh of relief even though he knew it would be fine. “Don’t tell anyone.” He’s pretty sure Picks wouldn’t, anyway, but he can’t help saying it.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Picks says. “You could tell the team, though, if you wanted. Everyone’s chill about Dan. Or if they aren’t, we set them straight. Or… not straight, you know.” He winks.

“Yeah, I know,” Kent says. “I’ve just… had some bad experiences.”

Picks narrows his eyes. “Who do I have to beat up?”

Kent laughs. “Don’t worry about it, they’re all in Vegas.” 

That just makes Picks’ face shift to something even more murderous, but he doesn’t comment, just says, “So tell me about your boyfriend.”

“Uh, his name’s Tomas,” Kent says. He pulls out his phone and shows it to Picks. These days, the background is a selfie of him and Tomas—nothing obviously romantic, so he can say it’s his best friend if anyone asks. It’s just them in a park in Seattle somewhere, trees in fall colors behind them.

“Nice,” Picks says. “When’d you meet him?” 

“Uh, almost two years ago?” Kent says. “But we didn’t, uh, start dating until last fall.”

“So back in Vegas?” 

“Yeah, he moved here with me. Or, well, he moved here when I got my new contract.”

“It must be pretty serious, then.” 

“I guess it is,” Kent says. “I mean, I love him, he’s…” He trails off, not sure how to put his feelings into words.

“Aww,” Picks coos. “That’s cute.”

“Shut up,” Kent says, but he’s grinning as he shoves at Picks’ shoulder. 

“Never,” Picks says. “Come on, let’s get back to me beating you.” He gestures at the screen.

“Next time you’re coming to my place and I’m kicking your ass at FIFA,” Kent says.

“Deal,” Picks says. 

   
         -------------

 **Swoops [3:28 pm]:** [PHOTO]

 **Swoops [3:28 pm]:** She’s standing!!!

 **Kent [3:36 pm]:** does it count when shes holding on to that chair

 **Swoops [3:36 pm]:** Dude, absolutely

 **Kent [3:** **36** **pm]:** im joking ofc it counts

 **Kent [3:36 pm]:** go hailey!! 

 **Kent [3:** **37** **pm]:** looking forward t seeing her @ thanksgiving :D

   
         -------------

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 8d 

New blog post: “Sam Brose, Devante Smith-Pelly and PK Subban: How to be Black in hockey” t.co/nmPOfeioALf

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 7d

Americans: Happy Thanksgiving!!

Canadians: Uh why is there no hockey today?

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 7d

There were six home openers on Canadian Thanksgiving this year. But sure, NHL has no American bias. (That’s a joke! Don’t @ me)

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 7d

On the other hand, it’s not as if you actually make Canadians happy if you cancel hockey on their national holiday.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 7d

Let’s not even get started on how hockey is cancelled for Christmas, but not for holidays of other religions.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 7d

Wait I changed my mind, that sounds like a great topic for a blog post.

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 3d

New blog post: “‘Everyone has to decide for themselves’: On hockey and Ramadan” t.co/eivSIRpsf

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau  **·** 3d

Special thanks to Farel Kaligis of the WHL and Absame Haji of the AHL for talking to me about being Muslim and playing hockey.

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 3d

I have three people lined up who offered to talk to me about being Jewish and playing, so this is turning into a series. DM me if you want to talk about your experiences as a hockey player and member of a non-Christian religion. 

   
         -------------

 **Kent [11:02 pm]:** at plane,home in 6 hrs

 **Kent [11:02 pm]:** so 2ish your time

 **Tomas [11:03 pm]:** I’ll stay up 

 **Tomas [11:03 pm]:** You looked good, nice assist

 **Kent [11:04 pm]:** cant wait to b home

 **Kent [11:04 pm]:** missed u

 **Tomas [11:05 pm]:** Missed you too

   
         -------------

Tomas wakes up in increments. He’s on his stomach, arms wrapped around his pillow, and it takes him a while to realize that the warm arm curled around his lower back is real and not part of a dream. Kent is pressed against his side, his hair tickling Tomas’ shoulder. 

It’s rare for Kent to be in bed, let alone still off his phone, by the time Tomas wakes up. He’s usually already been on a run by now. Tomas shifts and lets out a sigh, knowing it’ll tell Kent that he’s awake.

“Morning.” Kent sounds like he’s smiling, even though his voice is low. He moves his arm to trail his fingers over the bare skin of Tomas’ back. 

“Mm,” Tomas hums. He contemplates moving, but he doesn’t want to. “No run today?” 

“Thought about it. Decided I’d rather stay in bed with my amazing boyfriend,” Kent says. 

Tomas realizes Kent is drawing hearts all over his back with one of his fingers. He hides a smile against his pillow. “Good choice,” he says. 

It’s quiet for a while as Tomas thinks about getting up. Kent has a day off today. Tomas has a column to write and he needs to fix some technical issues with the comment section on his blog. But he made an outline for the column last night, and the comment section can go a few more hours without help. In other words, there’s really very little stopping him from just lying here and enjoying a lazy morning with Kent. 

Kent is tracing letters now. Tomas wants to know what sappy bullshit he’s writing, just not enough to focus on it properly. 

Eventually, Kent draws another heart on Tomas’ back, then runs his hand down from Tomas’ shoulders to his hips. Then he slides closer, until he’s half on top of Tomas so he’s pinning him down. He presses one leg between Tomas’ so he has to slide his thighs apart a little. Tomas hums at the turn his morning is taking. Kent kisses his neck, and Tomas turns his head for easier access. “I wanna fuck you,” Kent says into his ear, quiet and intense. Tomas can feel arousal stirring in his body, warm and lazy and wonderful. “Just like this. All you gotta do is lie here and take it. You up for that?”

“Mm, yeah,” he says, almost a sigh. 

The weight of Kent’s body disappears. There’s rustling of fabric, and then Tomas hears him rummage through the bedside drawer for a moment. He expects the snap of a bottle cap next, but instead Kent straddles Tomas’ hips and slides his warm hands down the expanse of his back again. 

For a long time, he just rubs and kisses Tomas’ neck and shoulders and back and ass and thighs. Tomas feels like a puddle of goo, like nothing could convince him to move. He’s aroused, a little, but there’s nothing urgent about it. Everything is warm and languid. 

Eventually, Kent tugs at Tomas’ boxers, and Tomas lifts his hips so Kent can pull them off. Kent nudges Tomas’ legs apart again to kneel between them and presses slick fingers to Tomas’ rim. It draws a quiet breath from Tomas, who still has his arms wrapped around his pillow.

Kent pushes his finger in, far more slowly than he needs to. Tomas wants to ask for more, but he also wants to let Kent draw this out, let Kent take him gradually and inexorably to the edge and over.

He spreads his legs a little more and hears Kent’s breath hitch above him. Kent moves his hand steadily, pressing in again and again, crooking his finger until he brushes up against Tomas’ prostate. Tomas lets the feeling wash through his body—bright pleasure all the way to the tips of his fingers and toes. 

“There, hmm?” Kent says, and pushes in two fingers to the same spot.

Tomas loses track of time. His dick is trapped between him and the sheets, but he’s in no rush to come anyway. 

Eventually, of course, Kent starts talking. “You look so good like this,” he says. Tomas feels a shiver run down his spine. He kind of wants to roll over so he can see Kent in return, but he stays where he is. Kent leans over and kisses the back of his neck. “So good,” he repeats. “All spread out for me, huh? Can’t wait to get inside you.”

Tomas groans when Kent puts in a third finger. It feels so good, especially with Kent talking dirty like this. 

“Remember the first time?” Kent says. His voice is low and intense. 

Tomas hums affirmatively. “Tell me.” 

“First time I topped,” Kent says. “First time someone offered to ride me, too.” He chuckles a little. “Well, someone outside of my Insta mentions, anyway.”

Tomas laughs, and that makes Kent’s fingers press harder into his prostate, so he ends up moaning instead. “Fuck,” he groans, when Kent presses in harder again. “Didn’t you say something about fucking me?”

“All in good time,” Kent says, because he’s a terrible tease when he wants to be, when Tomas has been fingered into immobility and can’t make Kent forget his own name. He leans down and licks a long stripe up Tomas’ back. “You looked so stunning, leaning over me, getting yourself ready for me,” he says. “I think about it all the time, you know. Think about your face when you sunk down on me. How it felt to have you around me.”

“Me too,” Tomas says, breathless with wanting. 

“Yeah?” Kent says. He pulls his fingers out, and then there’s the slick sound of him spreading lube on his dick. 

“What you sounded like.” Tomas can still imagine it, Kent’s gasping breaths, the way his voice had gone high whenever Tomas clenched around him. 

Kent leans over him and presses in, his breath stuttering against Tomas’ skin. Tomas groans. He’s not usually loud, but Kent has wound him up for a long time now, so everything feels oversensitive and heated. Besides, he knows Kent likes it when he’s more vocal. 

When he’s all the way in, Kent holds still to give Tomas time to adjust—he always does, even when there’s been as much buildup as today and he really doesn’t need to.

“Move,” Tomas says into his pillow.

“Mm, you’re so tight.” Kent’s voice wavers a little. He mouths at Tomas’ neck before slowly pulling out and pushing back in. 

“Move  _faster.”_ Tomas pushes his hips up.

Kent grabs hold of his hips to push them back down, but he does speed up his pace, and pretty soon Tomas is panting. Everything in his body is aglow with pleasure as Kent keeps hitting his prostate. Above him, Kent groans, but he hasn’t had as much buildup as Tomas and he doesn’t sound close, and he doesn’t let up. 

“Fuck,” Tomas groans eventually. “I want—Fuck, touch me.”

Kent slows down, then pulls out, which is the opposite of what Tomas wanted. But it only takes Kent a second to flip him over onto his back and push back in. The angle is harder like this, but Kent more than makes up for it by wrapping his hand around Tomas’ dick, jerking him off in time with his thrusts.

Tomas has been close for what feels like forever, but he still gets stuck on the edge for a long time, suspended in pleasure until he finally tips over into orgasmic bliss. He lets it crash over him in waves, lets his back arch, lets his eyes close as his climax washes over him.

When he opens his eyes, Kent is looking down at him, his gaze warm and hungry at the same time. He’s holding still, and as Tomas catches his breath, he pulls out and settles on his knees. One of his hands grips Tomas’ thigh as he jerks himself off with the other. It doesn’t take long until he spills as well, making a mess over Tomas’ hip and stomach. 

Tomas pulls Kent down beside him, and Kent curls into his side, tactile as always. Tomas grabs his hand and rubs circles into it with his thumb. It’s quiet and calm as they bask in afterglow.

“Glad I didn’t go for a run,” Kent says eventually. 

Tomas laughs. He’s going to have to get up soon, if only because eventually his desire for a shower is going to win out over his desire to stay in bed. But for now—for now, he isn’t going anywhere.

   
         -------------

“All right, five minutes for slapshots,” Kent says, when practice is called to an end. 

“Cool,” Eli says. They’ve been working together on and off, improving various shot types in five-minute stretches after practice. There’s a couple of other guys who hang around for a few minutes to practice faceoffs, but most of the team files off to do individual workouts or watch tape.

“Okay, so last night, when your shot went wide,” Kent says. “First of all, good call on deciding to use a slapshot there, since you were at the point.”

“And got a sweet pass,” Eli says. 

Kent grins at him. “Yeah, you’re welcome. Anyway, so you gotta watch your follow-through to make sure it doesn’t go high.”

A bit of work on his own slapshots can’t hurt, so soon enough they’re taking turns with the shot, the other watching to give critiques. By the time Eli is a little more satisfied with his aim, the rest of the guys have cleared off the ice, and it’s definitely been more than five minutes. 

They end up collecting the pucks off the ice, since they’re the last to leave. It’s quiet, the click of pucks being pushed together the only sound. 

“Hey Kent?” Eli says.

“’Sup?” Kent asks. 

“You know how I’ve been dating Sasha, sorta?” Eli says.

“Yeah,” Kent says.

“So it’s her birthday next week, and I don’t know what to get her.” Eli tosses his helmet onto the bench and leans against the boards. “Because—We’ve only been dating for a couple months, so I don’t want to come on too strong, but I really like her, you know? She’s great. So I want to get her something nice, but I don’t want to overdo it. And I don’t know what normal people buy other people.”

Kent hops up onto the boards. “I feel you, buddy, but I’m not sure I can help.”

“But you’re great with women,” Eli says. He sits next to Kent, their skates dangling over the ice. 

Kent snorts out a laugh. “I’m really not,” he says. 

The look on Eli’s face suggests he doesn’t believe him. “Come on,” he says. “Help me out here.”

Kent pulls off his helmet and gloves so he can rake a hand through his hair. “Look, Eli, first of all, I’ve been informed that I give too many gifts and that they’re too expensive, and that I need to  _stick to the rules_  and just give gifts on birthdays and Christmas, and keep a budget of, like, one-tenth of what I would spend if it was just up to me. So if you don’t want to come on too strong, I’m really not the guy you should be asking.”

“Oh,” Eli says. “Well, but at least you know, like, what’s romantic and stuff, right? What girls want to get as gifts?”

“And second of all,” Kent says. He takes a deep breath. “I’m gay. So. I’m not great with women.”

“What?” Eli says. 

Kent glances sideways. Eli is staring at him, which is not super encouraging. Kent looks away, tapping his fingers against the boards as he tries to keep his breathing steady. “Yeah, so. I mean, I can—”

“Wait, what?” Eli says. “You can’t be gay.”

“Why not?” Kent says. He grabs one of the pucks from beside him, turning it over in his hands. 

“Because!” Eli says. “Because you’re, like—What about last week when we were at that club and you left with that blonde girl?”

“Okay,” Kent says. He takes another deep breath. “That’s—She did not come home with me. For lots of reasons, one of them being that I don’t sleep with women because I’m gay.”

“But you’re—You’re like—” Eli seems lost for words, and Kent isn’t sure whether to bail him out. He doesn’t think Eli is going to give him trouble, really, but he can still feel the tension in his body over the turn the conversation has taken. “But you’re all—” He waves a hand in Kent’s general direction. “Bro-y and stuff. And everyone thinks you’re, like, a total player,” Eli says.

He shrugs. “People see what they want to see, I guess, and I used to—I mean, at least in Vegas, I leaned into it because it was safer.”

Eli seems to snap out of his disbelief, then, and says “Oh, shit. I didn’t mean—I think probably I just said like four things that were really bad.”

“I wasn’t keeping score,” Kent says. “Listen, you can’t tell anyone else, okay?”

“Shit,” Eli says again. “Kent, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

Kent leans sideways a little to nudge Eli’s shoulder with his. “It’s cool. Seriously.”

“You’re really gay?” Eli says.

“I’m really gay,” Kent confirms. “And like I said, my boyfriend is always complaining that I give him too many gifts, so—”

“You have a boyfriend?” 

Kent chuckles. “Yeah, and I buy him way too much stuff. But I got him flowers a couple weeks ago and he really liked them, so maybe just go with that. Or ask, like, your sister or something.”

“Right,” Eli says. “I, uh, I won’t tell anyone, you know?”

“Good,” Kent says. “Dan and Picks know, so don’t worry about them. But I’m not, you know—not out to everyone, obviously.”

“Right,” Eli says again. “Is that—sorry, you probably don’t want a million questions.”

“Go ahead.” Kent feels pretty good, actually. There’s a couple more guys on the team that he wouldn’t mind knowing. He’s met a few of Tomas’ friends—which had been incredibly stressful, but he’d talked to Khadija and Swoops a lot, and he’d gotten through it, and Tomas’ friends are great. And they’re trying to figure out if they want to go see Tomas’ parents for Christmas. It’s good. 

Eli hesitates. “I just thought… Isn’t that hard? Being, y’know, gay, when you’re a famous hockey player?”

Kent smiles. “Sometimes. But it gets easier every day.”   
   
         -------------   


**Tampa Bay Lightning** @TBLightning · 4h

We’re delighted to welcome players from across the league for the 2020 NHL All-Star game!

**Misha Nikolaev** @NikolaevMish · 3h

Proud to represent the Schooners along with @kvparson90. We’re ready!

[PHOTO]

|

 **Audrey Pine** @Audrey_101 · 3h

Oh my god they’re both so pretty

**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 3h

pacific team gonna crush it this year

   
         -------------   


“This is the two-year anniversary of the time we met,” Tomas says, handing Kent a glass of whiskey. He leans back against the wall next to Kent, their shoulders almost touching as they look out over the All-Stars party. 

“Yeah,” Kent says. “Remember when I thought you were dating Catrina?”

Tomas chuckles. “Glad I set you straight on that.”

“Not very straight,” Kent says with a smirk.

The crowd in front of them is loud. Kent doesn’t want to know how many of the players are already drunk. A couple of minutes ago, he caught a glimpse of Esko, who’s representing the Aces. He’s glad it isn’t someone else, and he’s also glad Esko didn’t see him. Maybe it’s cowardly, but there’s really nobody on his old team that he wants to talk to, other than Swoops. 

“Nice work on the accuracy shooting,” says a voice from Kent’s right. He looks over to find Jack standing there, looking a little awkward but smiling at him.

“Nice work on the stick-handling,” Kent responds. He glances at Tomas for a second, then at where the nearest people are, which isn’t very close. “Jack, this is Tomas, my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Jack says.

“We’ve met,” Tomas says, holding out his hand. “Good to see you again.”

Jack shakes Tomas’ hand, still looking a little surprised. “Good to see you,” he says anyway.

“Didn’t you bring Bittle?” Kent says. Bittle probably still hates him, but Kent feels like he could handle that. If Bittle still hasn’t forgiven him for all the ways Kent fucked up with Jack—well, Kent has forgiven himself. And maybe, some time when they’re not in the middle of a crowd, he could tell Jack that he’s sorry, and Jack might forgive him too. 

“Yes, he’s with Tater somewhere,” Jack says. “You work for ESPN now, right?” 

“Yeah,” Tomas says. “I still write my blog, too, and I get some commissions here and there.”

“I read your post about  _You Can Play_ ,” Jack says, and a moment later, he and Tomas have spun off into a conversation about LGBT education in youth hockey. Kent leans against the wall and sips his whiskey and listens. 

   
         -------------

 **Kent [4:28 pm]:** u gonna b home tnite?

 **Tomas [4:29 pm]:** Yeah I was gonna go climbing with Levi and Joe but it sounds like it’s falling through, why?

 **Kent [4:31 pm]:** picks & eli & dan are coming over and its about time u met them

 **Tomas [4:32 pm]:** Cool

   
         -------------

 **Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

If we win tonight’s game, we’re going to the playoffs!

|

 **Audrey Pine** @Audrey_101 · 3h

Shhh don’t jinx it!

**Jeff “Swoops” Troy** @Swoopthereitis · 3h

What do hockey players do on non-game-days? Watch more hockey.

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

Ten minutes till puck drop. @NHLBruins, bring it! 

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 3h

Every time I get invested in a team’s success and it’s not the Habs, I feel like I’m betraying my country, my heritage, and my friends.

|

 **Tommy Black** @sportsfan647 · 3h

Which team??

|

 **Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 3h

I can’t say it. The hockey gods would smite me and/or make the Habs lose for all eternity in revenge for my disloyalty. 

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h 

Five minutes in, we’re going on the powerplay after Marchand got sent to the box for hooking.

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

OH NO! We give up a shorthanded goal. We hate those. 1-0 Bruins.

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

GOAL!

|

 **Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 3h

Eli Ruther scored off the assists from Lindgren and Parson! Back to even!

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

Start of second period, we’re tied at 1. 

**Audrey Pine** @Audrey_101 · 2h

I know there’s still a bunch of games left to clinch the spot but I want it NOW

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

No goals in the second period even though we outshot the Bruins 16-9. We like shots but we prefer goals.

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 1h

GOAL!!

|

 **Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 1h

Kent Parson got the breakaway goal! We’re up 2-1 with six minutes left to play!

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 1h

The Bruins are going empty net with ninety seconds remaining…

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 1h

GOAL!

|

 **Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 1h

Sam Brose puts it in the empty net with seconds on the clock!

**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 1h

We’ve secured our spot in the 2020 playoffs!

   
         -------------   


Kent looks at Khadija on his laptop screen and finds that he doesn’t have a lot to say to her. 

“I’m glad to hear you’re doing well,” she says. 

“Yeah, I mean—We’re halfway through Round 1, it’s intense, I guess.” He takes a sip of milk. “But it’s fine. I mean, I haven’t—it’s not like it was last year, you know. I’m tired and all, but I’m excited, and I think we can go far this year, so… I dunno. I’m not—I don’t really know what we should talk about today, to be honest.”

She smiles on the screen. “I think, maybe, that we’ve done as much work as we need to do, in dealing with the problems you were having when you first came to therapy. Would that be fair to say?”

He breathes out slowly, surprised and kind of pleased. “Yeah, I guess so, actually. Does that mean—Am I graduating from therapy right now?”

She laughs. “If you want. You’re the client. If you feel you need my support for a little while longer, that would be fine, too. But if you find you don’t have much to say to me anymore, and you’d rather spend your time preparing for the playoffs than talking to your therapist on Skype…”

It’s weird, to think he might not actually need therapy anymore. But he can’t really remember the last time he had a panic attack. And even if he had one tomorrow, well… he knows how to make it through them, and he knows who else to ask for support.

“But I could still call you, right? If I changed my mind?” he asks, because the idea of never seeing Khadija again is simultaneously freeing and daunting.

“Yes, of course,” Khadija says. “Why don’t we end today’s appointment early, and for now we won’t schedule a new one. But if you find that another appointment—or another series of them—would help, you can always get back in touch.”

“Yeah, that’s… That sounds perfect,” he says.

“Good,” she says. “I’ve enjoyed working with you.”

“Yeah, me too. I mean—” Therapy has sucked, frequently, but—He wouldn’t be where he is right now without Khadija, and he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

She smiles at him. “I get it.”

“Thanks,” he says. “Seriously, thanks so much. If I ever need to recommend a therapist to anyone, I know where they can find you.”

“Thank you,” she says. “Take care.”

“You too.”

He presses the ‘end call’ button and stares at his screen for a while. He’s not in therapy anymore.

   
         -------------   


**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 14m

GOAL!

|

 **Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 14m

Eli Ruther puts the OT winner in the net in Game 7 and takes us to Round 2!!!

   
         -------------   


“Yeah, I think Eli did really well tonight,” Kent says. “Obviously he’s had a bit of a scoring drought the last couple of weeks, but it was good to see that we have other people who can step up if it’s necessary, and it was even better to see him get more pucks to the net again right when we really needed it. So yeah, it was a really good night, obviously.”

The locker room is loud, though people are making an effort to shush each other for the sake of the reporters crowded around Kent. He adjusts his snapback as another reporter asks, “So you’ll be going up against the Sharks in Round 2 next week, what are your thoughts on that?”

“Well they’ve had a great season, and obviously they did good in the first round. It’ll be tough to go up against them for sure, but I think we’ve got a great group here,” Kent says. “We have a day or two to re-group and prepare, and it’s just really important that we focus on what we need to do here.”

“How do you think Lewis Welch is playing?” another reporter asks.

“Yeah, he did great tonight,” Kent says. “He’s stepped up big time. We didn’t want to see Gunne going out, obviously, and—I think he’s day to day at this point, so we’ll see who’s going to play Game 1 against the Sharks, but it was good to see Lewis really step up and be there for us at a critical moment.”

There’s a couple of “thanks Kent”s as the reporters file out of the locker room. When the door closes behind them, Kent turns to his teammates.

“Hey guys, Round  _TWOOO_!” Conor shouts, when he sees the reporters have left. There’s a chorus of cheers from around the room. Kent grins and whoops along with them.

   
         -------------

 **Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

Round 3, here we come!!

   
         -------------

   
**Seattle Schooners** @SchoonersNHL · 2h

KENT PARSON SCORES IN OT! WE HAVE WON THE CONFERENCE FINAL! STANLEY CUP FINAL HERE WE COME!

   
         -------------

**NHL** @NHL · 3h

Tonight is the night! Game 7 of the 2020 Stanley Cup Final starts 8:00 pm ET at the Scotiabank Arena in Toronto. Schooners or Maple Leafs??

   
         -------------   


“They can still make it,” Émilie says. 

Tomas exchanges a worried glance with Jeff. “Yeah,” he says. 

The Leafs fans all around them are in better spirits, though they’re clearly not counting their chickens just yet. The arena has been sold out since ten minutes after the tickets went on sale—Kent paid more than two grand to get Émilie a ticket, having given his two Schooners-provided tickets to Tomas and Jeff. Her seat is further up, but she came down right after the buzzer sounded to signal the end of the first.

The thing is, the Schooners  _can_ still make it, but down 3-0 at the first intermission in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Final is not a great place to be, even if the Leafs have a long history of giving up leads.

The Zamboni finishes its sweep of the ice and drives back off, leaving a smooth, glassy surface behind. 

“First stride on fresh ice is always the best,” Jeff says. 

“Yeah,” Tomas says distractedly. 

“Hey,” Jeff says. “He’s won and lost ‘em before, you know? He’ll live.”

Émilie chuckles. “Jeff, you look like you’re dying of nerves right now, you know that right?” 

“Yeah, fair,” Jeff says. 

“I gotta get back to my seat,” she says, glancing around at where most people are finding their way back from the bathroom or from getting drinks. 

“Don’t let the Leafs fans convert you,” Jeff says.

“Yeah, right,” she says, glancing at the blue-and-white crowd around her with obvious disgust. 

“That’s the spirit,” Tomas says. He and Émilie, as proper Habs fans, have hated the Leafs for as long as he can remember. It’s not hard to channel a bit more of that for this game. It’s a good thing the Schooners aren’t playing the Habs, because he’s genuinely concerned about what that would mean for him and Kent. 

“God, please,” Jeff mumbles beside him, as the players come back out to the bench. Kent heads to center ice for the faceoff, and seconds later, the puck drops, and the battle is on. 

It’s been a rough final, but today’s game has only seen one powerplay so far, when Picks got sent to the box for hooking. Other than that, there’s been some pushing and shoving, some hard hits up and down the ice. But the refs are barely calling anything, so the Schooners haven’t had a powerplay opportunity yet. 

The crowd around them grows raucous as the Leafs get a couple of scoring chances, but a few minutes in, the tide shifts to the Schooners. Sam’s line is on the ice, keeping pressure on the Leafs’ defense. It’s more than a minute before one of the Leafs players finally gets the puck out of their defensive zone, and when he does, icing is called. Kent hits the ice with the rest of his line, but the Leafs don’t get to make a change due to the icing. 

“Come on, come on, win it clean,” Jeff says beside him, hands balled into fists on his knees. “Keep it in the zone, don’t let them change, come  _on_!”

Tomas doesn’t say anything, just stares at the ice where Kent smirks at Nazem Kadri, across from him at the faceoff dot. He says something, but of course Tomas has no idea what it is. 

Kent wins it clean. The puck ends up on Karl’s stick, and he sends it back to the point as the Schooners keep the pressure on, so the exhausted Leafs players can’t get off the ice for their line change. 

Hernandez passes to Overlay, who gets the puck to Kent. Kent fakes a pass to Eli, and the Leafs D-men spread out to cover him, but instead Kent sends the puck to Karl at the top of the faceoff circle. 

Tomas is half out of his seat. The puck whips across the ice, Karl draws his stick back and slapshots it—

“YES!” Jeff yells beside him. 

Tomas is yelling, too—he’s not even sure what. The Leafs fans around them are silent, throwing them dirty looks as Jeff throws an arm around Tomas’ shoulders, whooping with joy. On the ice, Kent knocks his and Karl’s helmets together as the screens overhead replay the goal. 

“God, it’s gorgeous,” Jeff says, out of breath, as he sinks back down into his seat. “What a goal.”

“They’re still in it,” Tomas says. “Come on, come  _on_ , guys.”

Another faceoff, another shift, another line change. They’re still down by two, and time is winding down, with the Leafs at least as dangerous as the Schooners. A couple of Leafs shots go wide; Misha makes some stunning saves, and then finally the Schooners get some offensive opportunities again. Gunne Norling sends a beautiful pass forward when the Leafs aren’t expecting it, and Picks takes it over the blue line just ahead of a Leafs defender. He’s got Jens with him for a two-on-one. 

“Pass it, just—No!” Tomas hisses, when the Leafs D-man gets his stick tangled up with Picks’ skates. The whistle blows. 

“Number 23, two minutes for tripping,” the ref announces over the arena speaker system.

“This is it, come on, make it happen,” Jeff mumbles beside him. The arena seems to be holding its collective breath. 

The Schooners go on the powerplay. Kent’s unit is on the ice, but for the first thirty seconds of the penalty, they can’t make anything happen—Kent loses the faceoff to Hyman, Karl almost wins it back, but the Leafs pass it back and forth and eventually manage to clear it. 

They push forward again, but Kent’s shot goes wide, and Dan’s rebound is gloved by the Leafs goalie. Kent skates off, and the second powerplay unit takes the ice with a little under a minute to go on the penalty. 

“Please,” Tomas whispers quietly.

Sam loses the faceoff, but Anselm intercepts a pass within the Leafs’ zone. He sends it back to Sam, who passes to Conor back at the blue line. There’s a moment where everything seems still, as Conor waits for his opportunity. Then he passes to Eli; Eli sends it to Anselm and Anselm to Sam, who’s made his way into the slot. The pass to Sam goes just a little wide, but it doesn’t matter: Sam pushes his stick out just before the Leafs defenders can push him out of the way, and the puck gets redirected and slides neatly between Andersen’s pad and the goalpost. 

Jeff is honest-to-god screaming now. Tomas imagines he can hear Émilie, further up in the crowd. He and Jeff are jumping up and down. There’s disgruntled faces and a rumble of panic all around them, but he doesn’t care—the Schooners are definitely back in it now. If anyone is going to give up a 3-goal lead to lose a game 7, it’ll be the Leafs.

There’s only a couple of minutes left in the period, and in the end, it goes to second intermission 3-2. They’re still down, but they’re close—Tomas can sense the Cup, somewhere in the building, and he  _wants_. He wants it for Kent, he wants it for Dan and Picks and Eli, he wants it for the rest of the team and the city. 

Émilie finds them after a couple of minutes. She looks much happier than forty minutes earlier, too. “They’re back in it!” she says.

“Don’t jinx it,” Jeff warns. 

They don’t say much—there’s too much tension. Before long, Émilie has disappeared back to her seat, and the game is back on. 

Two minutes into the third period, Auston Matthews gets the puck at his own blue line, crosses the ice in three seconds, dekes Misha, and tips the puck past him into the net. 

The rink explodes around them—Tomas can’t even hear the buzzer over the deafening screams of twenty thousand Leafs fans. 

“ _Crisse_ _de_ _Câlisse_ ,” Tomas hisses, even though nobody can hear. He doesn’t look at Jeff, because he doesn’t want to see the expression on his face. Two goals down again, with eighteen minutes to fix it—it’s not impossible,  _but._

The game gets rougher—Anselm takes a penalty for a particularly egregious case of holding, but ten seconds into the Leafs powerplay, one of their players gets one for hooking. Nothing comes out of the four-on-four, and time is slipping through the Schooners’ fingers as the clock ticks closer to the end. 

A  _Go Leafs Go_  chant picks up, somewhere in their section of the stands, and it takes less than five seconds before the entire rink is yelling it. God, he hates the Leafs. 

He hates them even more two minutes later. It’s not even a particularly beautiful play—just an intercepted pass in the neutral zone. Hyman passes to Nylander at the point, and Nylander goes for it, firing a quick wrister on goal. One of the Schooners’ D-men is in front of Misha, and Tomas doesn’t think Misha ever sees the puck as it sails past him into the net. 

The crowd is as loud as it was last time—louder, maybe, because it’s pretty clear what’s about to happen in this city for the first time in over fifty years. Jeff doesn’t say anything, and neither does Tomas. 

There’s eight minutes left, and he holds on to a sliver of hope as the Schooners fire a barrage of great and terrible shots at the Leafs net. But nothing gets through, and then there’s four minutes left, then three, then two. 

Tomas starts when Jeff squeezes his shoulder. He’s not sure when he last blinked. 

They watch the last two minutes tick away. The Schooners go empty net, but there’s really no use. The noise is deafening in the final minute. Everyone around them is on their feet, so Tomas gets up too, because it feels wrong not to look at the ice—like a train wreck he can’t look away from. The crowd counts down, and then everything around them is an uproar. People yell, scream, spill beer all over themselves and the people next to them.

“Let’s go,” Jeff yells over the noise. 

Tomas tries texting Émilie, but he’s unsurprised to find he no longer has cell phone reception. They fight their way out of the delirious crowd, only to find themselves in an even bigger one when they’re finally outside at Maple Leafs Square. 

“Fuck everything,” Jeff says. 

“Yeah,” Tomas says. 

They wait until Émilie finally gets their texts and meets up with them. They walk back to the hotel, because it’s no use trying to get a Lyft. It takes a little over thirty minutes, through a city that has exploded with joy. It’s not fun. 

He splits up with Jeff and Émilie when they get there, because none of them are in the mood to talk to anyone. 

He knows Kent knows his room number, so he stays up, trying to ignore the shouting and the horns honking in the streets below his hotel room window. He goes on Twitter but backs out immediately—all the Leafs fans he usually enjoys chirping are entirely too happy.

It’s almost ninety minutes later when there’s a knock at the door. “Hey,” he says when he opens it.

Kent looks sad and exhausted and crushed. “Hey,” he says, and lets himself fall forward into Tomas’ embrace.

   
         -------------   


**NHL** @NHL · 5h

The 2020 NHL Entry Draft is over! Next up, Free Agency starts on July 1st!

**Steve Mangle Flynn** @Steve_Mangle · 4h

Every time I’m sad that hockey will soon be dead for three months, I remember that THE TORONTO MAPLE LEAFS ARE STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS

**Tomas Nadeau** @TomasNadeau · 3h

Summer hiatus: as usual, blog will update at most once a week until the week before camp. 

   
         -------------   


**Kent Parson** @kvparson90 · 2h

the best thing abt being born on the 4th of july is u get fireworks so im looking frwrd to tmrw

   
         -------------   


The other side of the bed is empty when Kent wakes up, which is unusual to say the least. He’s a little disappointed, because he was hoping to start his birthday by cuddling up to Tomas. 

Kit jumps onto the bed when he sits up. “Hey baby,” he says, and she meows and butts her head against his hands. He scratches behind her ears, and she lets out a contented  _mrrow_ _._ “Did Tomas let you in the bedroom today?” he says. “What’s he up to, hmm?”

She just purrs some more, which tells him nothing. He rolls out of bed, finds a shirt somewhere, and wanders down the stairs.

Before he’s made it to the bottom, Tomas darts into the hallway from the living room. He looks rushed and also extremely not-awake. “Oh my god, why are you up  _so early_ ,” he says. “Happy birthday and I underestimated your morning-personness, so I’m not done and you can’t come into the living room yet.”

“Done with what?” Kent says, trying to peer into the living room over Tomas’ shoulder. 

“Nothing,” Tomas says. He steps up close to Kent and kisses him, soft and tender. “Happy birthday,  _mon_ _minou_ ,” he says, and kisses him again.

Kent smiles against Tomas’ lips. “Thanks,” he says. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Tomas says again. “Go back to bed. Or go for a run, or something. Don’t come into the living room. I just need twenty more minutes.”

Kent debates his chances of making it past Tomas—on the one hand Kent is an elite athlete, on the other hand Tomas knows exactly where he’s ticklish—but decides that he can probably go another twenty minutes without dying of curiosity. “All right, I’ll go run,” he says.

“Good, have fun,” Tomas says, pushing Kent gently away from the living room. “Don’t secretly follow me.”

He disappears back to the living room. Kent is sorely tempted, but instead he heads back upstairs for his shorts and running shoes. 

The day promises to be warm, but it’s not bad, this early in the morning. He’s barely broken a sweat by the time he gets back, but he still jumps in the shower before heading back downstairs. Surely he’s given Tomas enough time by now?

Tomas meets him in the hallway again, looking slightly less sleepy and slightly less stressed. “Okay,” he says. “I hope you like it.” He looks a little nervous about it, but Kent is just intrigued and excited.

“What is it?” he says. Tomas grabs his hand and pulls him into the living room.

On the wall behind the couch—the one they’ve been brainstorming ideas for the past year, but which continued to look empty—there are three huge canvases with pictures of Kit. They’re beautiful photographs, way better than the shit he throws on Instagram every day. She’s lounging on her side with her eyes closed in the first one, pouncing on a toy in the second. In the third, she’s sitting neatly, tail curled around her paws, staring directly at the camera with her gorgeous eyes.

“Oh my god,” Kent says. “That’s amazing. I love it.” 

“Yeah?” Tomas says. 

Kit has followed Kent from upstairs, and he scoops her up and cuddles her to his face. “You see that, baby? You look so pretty,” he coos. Kit purrs and pushes her head against his cheek. 

“I got a couple of the other ones printed and framed,” Tomas says. He gestures at the bookcase, where there’s a new picture of Kit on one of the shelves.

“I love it,” Kent says. “They’re beautiful. How did you even…” He trails off, stepping up closer to the big canvases to examine them.

“I, uh, may have abducted her to a pet photography studio when you were at the rink,” Tomas says. “She was a good sport about it.” 

Kit has settled in his arms, still purring quietly. Kent finds his way back to Tomas’ side, and Tomas wraps his arms around him and pets Kit. He couldn’t really wish for a better start to his birthday.

   
         -------------   


**Ashley [9:25 am]:** Happy birthday, big brother! I’ll call you in a bit for proper birthday wishes xx

 **Eli [10:04 am]:** happy birthday :D 

 **Dan [10:38 am]:** Hey Kent, happy birthday, hope you have a good one! I’m back in town on Monday, are we still on for drinks that night?

 **Swoops [12:07 pm]:** Happy birthday! I sent you a present, let me know if it arrived safely!

 **Picks [1:03 pm]:** hey man, having a good birthday? All’s well in Minnesota but it’s boring without the rest of the guys, lol

 **Picks [1:03 pm]:** anyway enjoy your day & happy 30th!

   
         -------------   


They go to a parade. The streets are packed, which inevitably means he gets recognized. A surprising share of the fans know it’s his birthday—whether because they follow him on twitter, or because a fourth-of-July birthday is easy to remember. It’s kind of nice to get birthday wishes. He signs a couple of autographs, and then makes a mostly-unsuccessful effort to be unrecognizable by pulling his snapback down to cover more of his face. Tomas just laughs at him when the next fan tentatively approaches them; he’s used to the fans by now, and they almost never pay any attention to him. 

After they grab dinner, they wander through the city. It’s warm and still light out. The streets are less busy now, but there’s a festive atmosphere. 

Kent is tempted a bunch of times to grab Tomas’ hand, because he wants to, because there’s so many other couples around and he wants to be cutesy with Tomas. But there are too many people around, and he’s not ready to get recognized while he’s holding hands with his boyfriend.

“So, what’s it like to be in your thirties?” Tomas asks, when they’ve made their way to Magnuson Park and are looking for a good spot to watch the fireworks.

“Not that different,” Kent says. It’s funny, he would’ve said a couple of years ago that he’d hate turning thirty, but he doesn’t mind so much, even though he knows it means he’s well over halfway through his playing career. 

“Ready for a new decade?” Tomas says. 

“I guess I am,” Kent says. “Are you ready for yours? It’s less than a year until you join me, you know.”

“God, don’t remind me,” Tomas says, who for some reason is decidedly less sanguine about being eleven months removed from joining Kent in the thirties. 

Kent laughs at him as he gestures at one of the grassy stretches by the waterside. “Come on, let’s sit here, old man.”

“Okay, it’s  _your_ birthday,  _you’re_ the one who just turned thirty,” Tomas says. They’re pretty early, so there’s still lots of space to choose from. Tomas spreads out their blanket on the grass, right by the waterside, and Kent sits down on one side and wraps his arms around his knees. Tomas settles down on the other side, a couple of inches between them. 

They look out over the water for a couple of minutes. The sun is just dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in a myriad of colors. It won’t be dark enough for the fireworks for a while yet, but the setting sun is its own kind of show.

“So, thoughts on the Habs free agency acquisitions so far?” Kent says after a little while.

“Ughh,” Tomas says. 

Kent giggles and leans over to nudge Tomas’ shoulder with his. “Yeah, pretty bad, huh?”

It doesn’t take more than that for Tomas to launch into a tirade about bad contracts and high salaries and botched rebuilds. Kent leans back on his hands and listens to his smart boyfriend complain about his team’s shitty management as the sky gradually darkens. 

There’s a quiet murmur around them of other people talking, on their own blanket islands on the grassy bank. It’s nice, peaceful. Ahead of them, across the water, he can just make out the people preparing the fireworks show on the float. 

Tomas falls silent when the show is about to start. Kent looks over and finds Tomas looking back, the whites of his eyes just visible in the dark. 

“What?” 

“No, nothing,” Tomas says, his voice warm.  

Kent glances around. There’s a few other couples on the field, but they’re hard to see in the dark. None of them are really close.

“You all right?” Tomas says, because he knows Kent still gets nervous sometimes, being together in public. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Kent says. “I want—” 

“What?” Tomas says quietly. 

“Nothing. Just this,” Kent says. Overhead, the first fireworks explode into color and sound. Kent shuffles closer to Tomas, takes a deep breath, and lays his head on Tomas’ shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END.
> 
> That’s it, y’all. 
> 
> Actually not quite: as I said before, there will be a multi-part epilogue, so please subscribe to the series this work belongs to!! 
> 
> I love every one of you. Please hit me up in the comments, and feel free to ask for my headcanons on stuff that didn’t get as much attention in the story as it could have (though not about the future too much, since like I said there will be an epilogue!).
> 
> Check below (at works inspired) for the amaaaazing artwork that Matt did!! 
> 
> As always, come find me on my regular tumblr at [whovianravenclaw](http://whovianravenclaw.tumblr.com) or on my hockey tumblr at [eyesonthepuck](http://eyesonthepuck.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Sanctuary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14946141) by [Omgpieplease (SceneryTurnedWicked)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/pseuds/Omgpieplease)




End file.
